The Mary Sue Experiments
by GSJessica
Summary: The authors discover It's All Real as they travel to 1943. By GS-Jessica, Tuttle4077, Niente Zero, LJ Groundwater, Catalyna, IronAmerica, Me, Jake Duncan, Byakugan, Hexiva, and 96Hubbles.
1. GSJessica

**The Mary Sue Experiments**

**GSJessica**

**It Was Supposed to be Fiction**

* * *

**NOTE:** The story you're embarking upon, The Mary Sue Experiments, started as an experiment to see if an author could do a self-insert into a story scenario without becoming a 'Mary Sue'. Ten authors took up the challenge and produced this over 150,000 word collaborative work. The stated objective was to write ourselves as accurately as possible into the Hogan's Heroes world. The Hogan's Heroes world was to be treated as historically real. That is, we reinterpreted the scenario and characters to regard them as they might have been in reality, had this unit actually existed in 1943. This means the canon characters are a bit different—harsher, mainly—and the settings are altered somewhat from what we saw in the fictional television show.

You can find the Archives photos mentioned in the Hogan's Heroes Yahoo group under code number: 0876707. Go to my (GSJessica) profile here to find a link. Login and Yahoo group membership are required.

* * *

It was supposed to be fiction.

It was supposed to be a silly television show about a never-could-happen situation where the Nazis were fools and a bunch of shouldn't-even-be-there POWs ran circles around them and pulled off impossible espionage and sabotage missions right in the middle of Germany and never got caught and…

And I know I'm shook when I write run-on sentences like that.

Yet there it was and suddenly it wasn't fiction.

The day started on Sunday, mid-winter in Washington, D. C., with little traffic and few people about. I had ensconced myself in a corner of the National Archives, happily digging through old, obscure documents, when a name scribbled on a corner of a World War II service record caught my eye. "R. E. Hogan, Col.", it said, with a faded string of numbers handwritten beside it. With a chuckle, I pulled the flimsy carbon paper sheet closer to me, squinting, then fumbled for my (much hated) reading glasses. Tilting the paper toward the window, cursing the dim February light, I struggled to make out the numbers.

To be sure, I knew there were probably many "R. E. Hogans" in the world, and in that war, but chasing down little research whims always amused me. Heck, the "R" probably stood for "Richard" or "Ralph". But—and my heart gave one of those embarrassingly deluded little flutters—maybe it meant "Robert" and It Really All Was Real.

I could feel myself blush even though I was alone.

Great historical research discoveries are a matter of chasing down tiny clues, extrapolating known materials into a picture of the 'character' (even though the character is/was a real person) and deciding how that character would act, and what he would do. Then you jump over the gaps in your information to where you think that person would go/do/be and hunt in the new spot for clues. So, to make a long story just a bit longer, I used my itty-bitty handwritten clue and jumped. I knew the "character" of Hogan already. Even though he was fictional, I treated him as real for my research purposes.

_Even though he was fictional…_ Do you know the feeling when you feel like you've been hit with a sledgehammer (but in the good way), and realize you know something no one else knows. Hogan, Carter, Newkirk, Kinchloe, LeBeau. I wanted to run around telling people. I wanted to wave the papers and files excitedly and explain how It's All Real.

Nonsense. Coincidence. False lead.

Feeling like a fool for the giddy over-reaction, I settled back and contemplated. Okay, there _had_ been a group of men in a German POW camp with those names. Obviously (obviously?) the creators of the television show knew these men, maybe had served with them, and based "Hogan's Heroes" on real people. Maybe it had been a tribute. Maybe there had occurred some small, tiny, vanishingly miniscule fraction of the bold adventures shown in the TV show actually done in real life by these men. They probably had a tunnel , did a bold escape, and maybe even took some downed fliers with them. You know—and I started digging again—if that was true, one of them almost certainly would have written a memoir. If I could just find that…

I think the college intern working at the Archives that weekend wasn't supposed to give me Box 0876707.

The photos were the kicker. Not allowed to scan or photocopy, I nevertheless propped up the group photo of the men in front of Barracks 2 (!) and snapped a shot on my mini-camera. Out it went with a quick text message to The HH Group, even though most of them will just think I'm great with Photoshop. But maybe, just maybe, one or two will understand it's real and will come along.

You see, there was also the document wrapped around the golden gadget, and never for a minute did I believe it would really…

* * *

…in the compound at Stalag 13 looking right at none other than Colonel Robert E. Hogan himself.

What do you think in absurd situations like that? I'm afraid I went totally Mary Sue in the moment. All sense and logic and everything else went right out of my head and I found myself thinking that Bob Crane had been absolutely brilliant casting. He and the real Hogan (real!) could be brothers. Except the real Hogan had an extra element no actor could ever convey. I don't know what to call it other than reality. Depth. A look in those deep, brown eyes that…

My fangirl 'squee' moment nearly got me killed. Apparently time travel comes with a substantial bang and a dust cloud. So while I was dopily wishing I was ten… uh, make that fifteen… years younger, twenty pounds thinner, and still wearing teal contact lenses, Hogan leapt past that frozen moment of confusion and into action just like he always did on the TV show.

He grabbed me, shoved me off into the hands of Unnamed Extra #2 who hurried me into the barracks while Hogan, Carter (!), Newkirk (!) and the others created a spontaneous diversion and/or explanation for my sudden appearance. I wished I could have seen (and recorded!) it, but I was starting to feel dizzy and somewhat losing my hold on reality, such as it was.

I was _in_ Barracks 2. No missing third wall. No stage line. No lighting grid instead of a ceiling. Sights, smells (eeww!)… In a word: reality.

Reality. Merciful heaven… reality? Or the ultimate Mary Sue fangirl delusion? And where was that pretty gold top-secret Nazi time travel gadget that dropped me here? It was a long ways back real time. More than sixty years. Longer than I'd live. If I lived through Nazi Germany, that is.

I suspect great adventures are much more fun when they come with a round-trip ticket.

* * *


	2. Tuttle4077

**Tuttle4077**

**Okay, What!**

Oh, this was one of the stupidest things I'd ever done. Really, honestly. And I've done some stupid things in my life, let me tell you.

My journey started in Peru. You see, there was this guy there from Washington D.C. I was pretty sure he was a CIA agent. He denied it of course. But that's what they're _supposed_ to do. Well, anyway, he told me about Washington one day. I guess that's what really started it.

Going to Peru for three months and coming back to Alberta's -40C was a bit of a shock. Now, all of a sudden, I had to dress in twenty layers before I even thought about going outside. You know, back on the island (Vancouver Island, that is. As if there is any other island worth mentioning!), I went out in flip-flops and a sweater in the middle of December. By February, the daffodils would be up and leaves would be on the trees. Not in redneck country.

I got back to two weeks of -40. Finally it got warm enough to start snowing again (I've never seen it snow in anything colder than -20). After an entire month, I was starting to get sick of it.

The third nail in my coffin was a movie. "National Treasure". I watched it in anticipation for the second one, which I never actually went to go see. I'm a Canadian of course, but American history has always fascinated me.

I was getting the itch to travel again. I mean, you can only take so much winter before it starts getting to you. I had a brand-new passport with only one stamp in it (I am still bitter that we didn't go to Bolivia). But where to go?

Well, this was the silliest reason of all--a short message from a fellow Hogan's Heroes fan fiction writer. Apparently she found proof HH was real in the National Archives. And I thought I was a lunatic. Well, then again, maybe I was. After all, that went into my consideration when I booked a flight to D.C. I really am dumb sometimes.

My folks thought I was crazy. But, eh, what were they gonna do? Now, where I got the money from, is still a mystery. And how exactly I sweet-talked my boss into giving me a week off after being gone for three months only a month before, well, I can't quite figure that one out either. But I'm sure it was a sight to see. I may be a blond, but I'm also as cunning as a fox who's just been promoted--

Well, anyway, I boarded a flight to D.C. Honestly, the dumbest thing I've ever done. But, hey, you're only 21 once, right? Besides, the States were the perfect place to go! Canadian dollar was up and who knew how long it would stay that way! I still remember going down when it was sixty-two cents to the American dollar and--

Getting off track. Sorry. I should probably get to the point before I start babbling. Point is, eventually I made it to the National Archives. You know you're obsessed when…

The place was freakin' huge. Now, I'm the type of person who gets lost in a telephone booth so it was only by some miracle that I found what I was looking for--the "proof" of which GSjessica spoke. Seriously, what kind of a nut travels a gabillion miles just to look at a picture? Dumbest thing I've ever done.

Box 0876707 didn't look very exciting. Neither did the contents, really. I couldn't help but laugh though. It was obviously a joke. Someone who was a bigger fan of the show than I was had obviously planted it there. Like, honestly. Hogan's Heroes wasn't real. Duh.

But who would pull a crazy stunt like that anyway? I shook my head and grabbed a picture. The cast of HH standing in front of Barracks 2. Well, it was a good thing there was plenty else to do in Washington because I was rather disappointed. I also felt like a ruddy fool. Seriously, how dumb could a girl get?

It was then that a gold object caught my eye. Scrunching my nose, I ignored it and put the file back in the box.

Now if I hadn't been a big klutz, I would've left it at that. But as it happened, I tripped over my own big feet and the contents of the box scattered all over the floor. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Grumbling to myself, I got on my hands and knees and started throwing things back in the box. Dumb photo, check. Yellowing papers with some sort of report written on them, back into the box they went. Gold thingy--

Now that was dumb. I turned to toss it in with the rest of the stuff only to find the box was gone. Quirking an eyebrow, I looked around. Nothing.

It took a minute for me to realize that the entire polished floor of the building was gone too- replaced with dirt? Oookay… What? Now, just how in the heck?

Another moment passed before I noticed the gold thing in my hand was missing too, along with all the other scattered contents of Box 0876707. What?

Okay, what!

Jumping up, I took a look around. Some sort of dirt tunnel? How in the freakin' heck do you go from the floor of the National Archives to a dirt tunnel! That just didn't make sense! Really, no sense whatsoever and I'm quite the nonsensical person. Maybe there was an earthquake and the floor opened up under me. Did Washington get earthquakes. Washington D.C.? Washington State did, but-- Well, it couldn't have been an earthquake. I would've remembered something like that... right? Unless, of course, my brain was putting up some sort of defence because it had been such a horrible experience. Still didn't make sense though. I mean, a dirt tunnel under the National Archives? A subway maybe, but not a dirt tunnel. Okay, so maybe there was an earthquake and I died. But this didn't look like the heaven I had been told about. Was I even going to heaven? Of course I was! So, maybe there was an earthquake--

Drop the earthquake theory already!

Standing there, arms folded across my chest, my face scrunched with thought, I tried to think of another possibility. Maybe the Archives were so boring, I fell asleep. Hmmm. Nah. In fact, there was really only one explanation that seemed to fit.

Sighing, I threw my arms up and let them smack against my thighs. It was official. Send me to Ponoka because I had finally gone insane.

* * *

I can resist the Sue curse. Sure I can.

By the way, Ponoka is a little podunk town in Alberta. 100 years ago, the only thing there was an insane asylum.


	3. Niente Zero

**Niente Zero**

"It's not even your fandom." I was scolding myself. "You know it's not. Fascination with twentieth century history aside, you only have time for one hysterical obsession, and you sure don't have time to go poking in boxes, looking at photos."

"Yehbut." Myself is argumentative. "You're going to be in DC anyway. You don't REALLY want to get drunk with a bunch of pharma salesmen after the conference. You LIKE archives. What is there to lose?"

Okay, so I talked myself into going to see what that crazy message about it all being real and that damn photo were about. Well. I mean, seriously. My friend who lives in DC spends his time at the Library of Congress researching voodoo magic stuff, as in, he's going to be a wizard when he grows up, and he's already ten years older than me. How could this be any more of a waste of time?

And seriously seriously. Drinking with pharma reps. I'm an introvert. That would really work out great.

Sooo. Yeah. Apparently I wasn't the first person looking for box 0876707. I blew it off with tales of a grandfather. Heh. Well, one of them did serve, but in Africa. The other - oh geez, diplomats so don't count. Anyway, my Aussie accent failed to cause alarums and excursions. 

Alarums and excursions. Right. So I open the box up, take a look at the photo. Oh man. I suck at Photoshop, but I know what I'm looking for, and if this was a fake it was a damn good job. 

Um. Time machine thing. Yeah. I work with science people, but biology science people, not physics science people. But I do my reading, and sure, all that quantum silly string stuff posits the possibility of time travel, but oh my, I'm rambling, because, not as in "You touch a wee gold thingamajig and BAM!"

And dust, and noise, and one pissed off short, French guy. Under me. I'm what they kindly call statuesque. I have a presence. Right now it was crushing Corporal "Apparently historically real, oh my god" LeBeau.

I rolled. I heard rolling helps when you land.

Let's say that I have seen weird things in my life. And I've seen people who can't believe what they're looking at. AND I've seen lots of lovely WWII era costumes.

Put it all together and I wasn't saying a damn thing to incriminate myself until I figured out what was going on.

Time travel? Granted. People who look almost exactly like some guys on television? Now you're having me on.

Tell you what, though, I've also traveled through LAX as a wide-eyed Aussie twenty-year old, and that's possibly more disorienting than time travel. 

I stood up, brushed myself off, had the presence of mind to be glad I was wearing a long skirt, sensible shoes and, oh thank god, a decently high necklined t-shirt. My standard uniform for tourism. Why think of that? Well, I always like to be dressed to fit in.

Which... bunch of guys... POW camp. But still. A lot less to explain this way than something less modest.

That was thirty seconds of getting off LeBeau, poor man, and brushing myself down. We appeared to be behind... oh my. Behind the barracks. Nice. I recognized them from the set. 

LeBeau looked cross. Well, you would, wouldn't you? But I thought again about the people before me asking for box 0876707. Damn, maybe I wasn't the first person to fall on him. I speak no French. I didn't know if it all being real extended to everyone speaking English in extremely campy accents. All I knew was that I did NOT want to piss off a bunch of armed, desperate, dangerous guys.

So I kind of surrendered. I mean, I put my hands up. Still wasn't saying anything. Because you'll notice, I gibber. And ramble. When I'm nervous.

"Another one. The Colonel will want to see you. Per'aps you have an explanation."

Well, apparently he did speak English with an accent. Or maybe the time travel had some kind of effect and I could understand French. Heck if I know. But I'm a good girl. I scooted into the barracks. 

The Colonel was sitting at the table drinking coffee.

Yeah. Just like that.

I would have saluted or something but geez, I'm not military and I think that'd be wrong. But I didn't really know what to do with my hands. 

"ANOTHER one?" Hogan said in a clearly exasperated tone.

"Uh. Hello. Good afternoon. Y'know."

Babbling. My finest moment. But he was ... ahh... yeah. I'd insert myself in his storyline any day and twice on Sundays, if you know what I mean. And I think you do!

Peter Newkirk sat up from his bunk. I was having a hard time with this because he, too, looked too Newkirk to be Newkirk.

"Well," he said, "at least we keep getting Allies. This one's a bloody colonial!"

Ahhhhh. Feel the love.

I wanted to go HOME. Or ... to London. Hell, if I'd really traveled back in time, I wanted to go see my grandmother and tell her a few things. Paradoxes be damned. But mostly, I wanted to go home, and thinking of my grandmother reminded me that I must play the stiff-upper-lipped role. My family does not DO falling apart. Or making scenes. 

Which would really explain bursting into tears and saying "I don't know what's going on, but I want to go hoooome."

I'm such a baby.

I knew I should have stuck to my own fandom.


	4. LJ Groundwater

**LJ Groundwater**

**But My Name's Not Sue!**

_Stay calm... stay calm... there's nothing here that you can't handle... nothing that you can't... oh my gawd, I'm soooo scared. No, okay... that's not going to help. _

I put my hands down and they immediately come up cold. And damp._ Yuk; what am I sitting on? _I stand up and wipe my hands on the back of my jeans._ Wish I'd brought a jacket, _I think, rubbing my hands up and down my bare arms. Darn my eternal love of tee-shirts. But then, that's what I always wear when it's hot. And Washington, DC., is a hot place in May.

_So why don't I feel like I'm in Washington?_

I stand still for a minute, wondering how my logical head is going to get me in trouble this time. I try to think back to what I was doing when I suddenly ended up in the dark. I was in one of my favorite places in the world... the nation's capital... on my own in the National Archives... surrounded by nothing but books and photos and all those wonderful things that make life so exciting... I was just looking at photos and following my investigative nose from one item to another and then... _POOF!_

Well, it wasn't so much of a _poof _as it was a _plop_, and a downright uncomfortable one at that. Not to mention inconvenient. I'm supposed to be back at work at four o'clock tomorrow morning. 

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit nervous. It's almost completely dark in here, and there doesn't seem to be anyone around... and oh, God, what if there are bugs? Furry things I can handle, but bugs? Bugs like these damp, disgusting places... wherever this one happens to be. Maybe I fell down the stairs to the basement of the building. But I wasn't near the stairs….

I back up slightly out of sheer nervousness and hit something solid with my back. I turn around and feel for it as my eyes work to adjust. This is a... this is a ladder!

My nervousness takes a slight turn toward excitement. Ladder—up and out! I have no idea how I ended up in this basement, but I'm getting out... _now_! I grab hold of two rungs and slowly start to pull myself up, blessing the very uncool sneakers that I almost _always_ wear instead of trendy shoes, and I only get a couple of feet up, when I hear a noise from above me, and a small trail of dirt comes down and hits me in the face.

Muffled voices reach my ears. I stop and try to make myself look small, even though I'm not very big to start with, and slim on top of that, and I hold my breath. Suddenly there's a shaft of light and hurried footsteps. _Shoot, there's someone coming! I've gotta get off of this ladder!_ I try to move with the noise from above so I can't be heard, and I scramble to the floor and back up against the wall, hating the mere idea of what might be crawling on it—and therefore onto my shirt.

There are two people descending, I see, and I don't like the sound of them. "Move it, Andrew!" one of them says from above the other.

"I'm going as fast as I can!" answers Andrew, who then drops, surefooted, to the floor.

His partner, whose English accent was quite distinct, lands beside him as the light from above disappears. I stay perfectly still as the pair move around, obviously comfortable with their surroundings and in the darkness. What kind of trouble will I get into if I'm found in the private basement of the National Archives?

The beam of a flashlight pierces the darkness, and I try not to gasp out loud. But these two are still hanging around, and I have to breathe eventually, so I let out a tiny breath, then catch myself again.

Darn, it was enough! The beam swings in my direction. I duck down low and it narrowly misses me. "Did you hear that, Carter?" asks the Englishman again.

My brain suddenly connects the two names. Andrew. Carter. And the voice. English. And the darkness. Not a basement, but a tunnel. And the light—not from the National Archives; from outside.

It all happens in a split second. I'm in a tunnel under Stalag 13—I'm in Nazi Germany in the middle of World War Two! I'm with _Hogan's Heroes_!

_I'm losing my mind!_

No, no, no, no. This doesn't happen. I mean it _doesn't_. I've spent a lot of time reading about Mary Sues and people inserting themselves into stories. _Fiction_ stories. _Hogan's Heroes_ is fiction. It _is_. I'm not there. I can't be. It makes no sense. And yet—

The flashlight swings again and hits me right in the hot air balloon in the middle of my shirt. "Well, well, well. What have we got here?" The dry sarcasm in the voice is unmistakable, and even though I can't see him, I know exactly who I'm dealing with. _Please, God, let Newkirk be as understanding deep inside as I've written him to be!_

_What am I saying?_

Silence being the better part of fear, I decide to stay quiet for the moment. I don't think I really have any right to say anything right now, and really, I'm more than a tiny bit scared. I know these are good men (okay, at least they're good men on television and in the stories I've written—and read!), but since I'm not sure any of this is quite real, I'd better not take any chances. And besides, what can I really say?

I think I gulped. "This one doesn't look too dangerous," Newkirk says. I feel relieved. "But you never can tell—Carter, cover me," he adds. I gulp again as Newkirk—Corporal Peter Newkirk, RAF, I remind myself—moves in and waves the flashlight in my face. I blink in the light, but I'm still speechless. "Where do _you_ come from?" he asks, with just the tiniest bit of menace in his voice. Okay, maybe a bit more than that. But who wants to think Newkirk is going to have a go at _me_?

"Uh—Washington," I say finally. Thank God at least I said that clearly. _American accent, see, boys?_

"Washington," Newkirk repeats. "You hear that, Carter? This bird just dropped down from the States to have supper and a chat with us. Isn't that nice?"

"Come on, Newkirk; she looks lost, and we don't even know who she is." Andrew Carter—Little Deer Who Runs Swift and Sure Through Forest—comes forward. I can almost see his reassuring eyes. "Hey, can you tell us your name?"

"I'm Annette," I say. 

Carter smiles. Bless him. "That's a nice name," he says.

I nearly blurt out, "Oh, I'm so glad it's just _you _guys!" when Newkirk deflates my mood: "Yeah, and so is Mata Hari," he comments. "We'd better take her upstairs to the Colonel."

"Colonel Hogan?" I ask.

Newkirk's eyes narrow. _Whoops._ But I expect no less of him. "You know the Colonel?" he asks, now even more suspicious. He takes me by an arm, I struggle a bit to free myself and he eventually satisfies himself with the knowledge that he's bigger than I am and can probably catch me if I take off. "Come on, let's go."

I walk with what could pass as confidence down the tunnel, trying to take in my surroundings as the light increases and we get closer to the radio area. I'm trying to take in that this is all real now—that all these places that I wrote so carefully about, that I watched so often on television—do truly exist. I look left and see a cot with a blanket tossed carelessly over it. I look right and see a small table with a rickety-looking wooden chair in front of it, a radio with lots of switches, a table microphone (almost like the one I use at work!), a couple of pairs of headsets, a clipboard with a roughly sharpened lead pencil on it—and a little stack of blue paper neatly clipped inside it. 

And then, there's the ladder. Oh, God. I'm excited, but I'm a bit nervous. Without waiting for directions, I start up the ladder and get as far as the second rung before Newkirk physically stops me. "Hey, there, where do you think you're going?"

Time to give him a bit of reality—wow, does _that_ sound weird considering where I am! "You said you want me to see Colonel Hogan. Well, he's upstairs in the barracks, right? At the very least, he'll be out in the yard. So let's go!" For some reason, as much as I think this will be absolutely thrilling, part of me is totally petrified. _Please stop me... please stop me..._

But Newkirk merely exchanges glances with Carter and nods. "I'll go first," he decides. I can't argue with that, so I hop back down, and Newkirk leads the way after warning Carter to keep a close eye on me as he brings up the rear.

And suddenly, there I am, in the middle of Barracks Two. I can't even begin to explain the feeling that washes over me—the familiarity of everything is so comforting, so... joyous. There is the table, the benches. There is Newkirk and Carter's bunk. There is the stove—with Le Beau standing there, in his torn red sweater, cooking at it! There's the sink. There's Kinch at one of the lockers, tall and handsome, with that brilliant moustache. And there—oh, good heavens—there is the door to Colonel Hogan's office. Closed.

The look on my face must tell them something, because all of a sudden, Kinch is practically on top of me. "What's this all about?" he asks Newkirk and Carter, who have not yet left my side. I can't take my eyes off him—even when I hear the bunk behind me fall back into place and I am so tempted to turn around and see it happen for real. He has a real command presence that strikes me. _Something that doesn't get mentioned often enough on the series or in the writing,_ I realize. 

"We found her in the tunnel when we came back in," Carter says. "Her name is Annette."

"And she's...?"

"She says she's from Washington."

Kinch and Le Beau exchange looks. "Washington?" Kinch repeats. Why does everyone do that? "London didn't tell us anything about any visitors."

"And she knows about Colonel Hogan," Newkirk adds, distrust all over his face.

"She is a spy," Le Beau says with a sneer. He turns his back on me and goes back to his cooking.

"How do you know that?" Carter asks.

"_Hmf_—just look at the way she is dressed. What woman walks around in clothes like that?"

I'm offended. I wasn't expecting to be wandering into the middle of Stalag 13, after all. And I didn't realize that POW camps were black-tie affairs. And being a spy means I'm not a _woman_? "I'm dressed just fine for where I was supposed to be, thank you," I say before I can stop myself. The room pretty well silences at that. I reconsider my position. "I mean... I didn't expect to come to Stalag 13 today, Corporal Le Beau," I reply.

Le Beau's eyebrows arch as I say his name with no introduction. "She is a spy," he repeats coldly, and turns away. "Let _le_ Colonel deal with her."

With Kinch nearby, Newkirk has headed toward the Colonel's office and knocks on the door. It opens, and when Robert Hogan steps out I'm left nearly breathless.

God help me, he _does_ exist. 

He comes out, and when Newkirk murmurs something to him and he looks at me, the expression on Colonel Hogan's face becomes understandably (though disappointingly) slightly less than pleased under his familiar crush cap. _I always wanted one of those,_ I think irrelevantly. I don't dare say it as he takes in and lets out a heavy breath. "Great," he says. "That's just great." _I knew you were going to say that,_ I think, forcing a tiny smile _not_ to curve the edges of my lips. He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "What's this?"

"She's a spy," Le Beau says for the third time. He's starting to get on my nerves. 

"She says she's come from Washington," Carter explains, again.

I wait for Colonel Hogan to repeat that (funny, I can't think of him as "Hogan," as I do when I'm writing!), but he doesn't. Instead, he nods slowly. And I can't help thinking that he looks tired. A small part of me can't help wondering if I'm partly responsible for that—when I've been writing what I _thought_ was his _character_, I have tended to run him around a bit…. But then I think, _Heck, if he's __**real**__, then nothing I write will affect him anyway!... Right?_

"We've got roll call in a couple of minutes," he says. "Get her out of sight and get her changed. If she's spotted, she'll need to _try_ to fit in." He looks over at Le Beau. "Le Beau—get her one of your shirts and a pair of pants. She's closest to your size. It'll work for now, anyway."

I look at the French Corporal, whose immediate protest is cut off by the Colonel's firm voice. "There's no time to argue, Le Beau; just do it. When roll call's finished we'll get on the horn to London to sort this out once and for all."

* * *

**LJ Groundwater's notes:** The reason I chose the name "Annette" is when I was a child I thought it would be the most wonderful thing in the world to be named Annette... yeah... like Annette Funicello.

I DO love Washington, it's one of my favorite places in the whole wide world.

I did work with those old microphones, when I worked in radio.

I am about Le Beau size-- maybe an inch and a half more, but not much else.

And... the reason he doesn't seem to like me, is that every time I talk to someone new about the biography, they ask me if I've spoken with Robert Clary, tell me how wonderful he is, then tell me he must not understand the project... but that he can be tough to get around to... obviously, I'm one of those people!

And... I do have a bit of a mouth, but only when pushed. And if I DO push when I shouldn't... I tend to apologize, at least in some small way. And like most people, I suspect, I do think totally irrelevant thoughts at the most inappropriate times! 


	5. Catalyna

**Catalyna**

I think I should make one thing perfectly clear: the only thing I'm sure of is it all started with a photo. 

In mid winter, GSJessica had sent a photo of what looked like Col. Robert E. Hogan and some men next to a barracks accompanied with a text message to the HH online group. The text told of a wondrous Box 0876707 in the National Archives with proof that Robert Hogan and his men actually existed.

"Okay," I thought. Or was it "Cool?" I can't remember, but, anyway, that was it. I didn't think of it any more than just that one word. Life went on, and after all, Hogan's Heroes was just one fandom in my online life and my real life was getting busy right then.

It wasn't until spring had come to Washington when I had thought of it again. The day was warm and no rain in sight after a particularly soggy week. It was a perfect day to take a lunchtime walk; and as my co-workers were all at meetings that afternoon, if I was late coming back, no one would notice. So why not walk to the Archives Building to check out the treasure called Box 0876707? I hadn't heard if anyone else from the lists had checked it out and maybe, I would be the first after GSJessica. Although why no one else had gone, I did not have a clue.

Once there, I had a problem. Box 0876707 was not available. No amount of wheedling, cajoling or even half-hearted flirting with the man behind the counter would work. (Well, the flirting hadn't worked in person for over ten years at least, although I did usually have moderate success on the phone…) I was able to obtain some other files for my own interest, just to make sure the trip wasn't a total loss. As I went into a quiet corner to review my papers, I noticed a glint of gold under a table in a far corner. At first I thought it was just a candy foil wrapper some idiot had balled up and left until I looked at it closer…

No, no candy foil, as I found out when I went to pick it up. The minute I touched it, I found myself on a soggy hill overlooking what looked like some sort of military camp. It was now twilight. Replacing my glasses on my nose so I could get a better look, I could tell that the men were in German Luftwaffe uniforms. 

"Oh, FISH!"

"Okay, don't panic," I told myself as I got up. "What German do you remember? You took German in High School and lived there as a kid." 

Unfortunately, the only phrase that came to mind was: "Ich kann nicht Deutsch sprechen. Ich bin eine Amerikanerin." I really didn't think that would help my situation. 

My next thought, "Try and remember what you know about prison camps during World War II." 

Of course, my mind went directly to Great-Uncle Paul who had been taken to Dachau when it was a re-education camp during the early years of the Reich. He had been shot in 1939. Not doing too good on keeping my morale up department. Telling myself that it wasn't a prison camp wasn't helping.

As I made my way down the hill away from the POW camp, trying hard not to trip over the uneven ground in my so-called sensible pumps, I heard a noise coming from the woods. 

"Schiesse!" I thought, momentarily pleased I had actually thought of another German word, although embarrassed it happened to be a swear word.

Not knowing if it were a guard, prisoner or even an animal, I scrunched down trying to get even smaller than my normal five feet height. I couldn't hear anything, but the white in my printed skirt must have shown like a beacon in the coming moonlight because as soon as I had thought I had hidden myself, a hand from behind covered my mouth and another one grabbed my arms pinning them next to my body. A voice whispered something in German to me, but I didn't understand. I was going to try to bite the hand, but all I got was wool from the gloves. 

"Uh uh, nicht scharfer, Liebchen" the voice whispered. 

I was scared stiff but figured he was telling me not to bite. At least I hoped so; I knew he was telling me not to do something. My stomach was in knots. The voice then said something else, but I couldn't understand, although it sounded like he wanted me to agree. Dumbly, or Dummily, I agreed. 

When he took his hand away from my mouth, I gasped out, "Ich kann nicht Deutsch sprechen. Ich bin eine Amerikanerin and I'm going to be sick!"

I must have startled him because I heard a quick "WHAT?" in English. But it gave me time to turn around and take a quick look at my captor. It was an odd mix of emotion; both a thrill and disappointment to see I was captured by Sergeant Olsen. I mean, of all of Hogan's men, I got captured not by a regular, but a frequent guest star that wasn't even a star.

He was taller and thinner than I thought he would be, but his eyes still reminded me of a cocker spaniel. He wasn't in his usual uniform but not in the saboteur black or an enemy uniform, so he must have been coming back from a "switch" of outgoing prisoners.

"Wow! You really do speak German!" I blurted out. 

Although, looking back, I have no idea why I was surprised. Hogan's men had imitated German officers and civilians successfully during the show and that was imitating real life, they must have been able to be fluent in German to do so.

He was surprised and a bit exasperated at this. "Yeah, I really do speak German. Now what are you doing here?"

"Olsen?" another voice called softly.

"Over here. We've got a small problem," Olsen answered.

Out of the woods, came Private Newkirk. "What's up?"

"Her," Olsen nodded toward me. "Says she's an American."

Newkirk turned toward me and looked me up and down. I was definitely not flattered by the look in his eyes. 

"Another one? Has Stalag 13 become some sort of allied female meeting place that no one has told us about?"

Olsen looked surprised, "You mean there's more?"

Not answering, Newkirk roughly took hold of one of my arms, "Colonel will want to see you."

Again, mixed feelings of joy, anticipation, and dread. I remember thinking that mixed feelings were going to become quite common for me. O frabjous day, callooh, callay#, indeed.

* * *

#From the "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll from _Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There_, 1872. Exactly the way I was feeling.


	6. IronAmerica

**IronAmerica**

I am a fairly normal teenage girl. I do not, I repeat do NOT believe that Hogan's Heroes could ever be real. I will write about it, but I don't believe it. Of course, as soon as I saw the text message, I had a fit. I had to see for myself. What writer wouldn't? I had just gotten home from school, and was looking at new text messages. The one last in line was most surprising. A photo of the REAL LIVE Hogan's Heroes.

I ran to my room, more of a walk-in closet, and packed my backpack. Than I talked my mom into driving me to Washington D.C., and the National Archives. My hometown is in Pennsylvania, in a hell-hole( Not Heilwood), and I relished the chance to see something interesting. My options for the weekend had been limited, so this was a godsend.

As soon as I got to D.C. I hit the steps of the Archives running. Apart from a minor snag with security (Sir, that's not a weapon, it's a camera), and finding the correct section, nothing went wrong.

After finding the correct section, which took forever, cause I'm no good with directions, I snagged a clerk to help me find the box from the text message. "Sir, could you help me find box 0876707?" The poor, vampiric clerk paled, and asked if I wanted to leave a contact number. What was that about? I left my mom's cell number, and set to work on the contents of the mysterious box.

I found the photo, and my already messed-up heart did a back flip. I know a forgery or a fake when I see one, and this wasn't. I called a friend who was in the area, and told her to come over ASAP.

One hour later, Mugiwara, a fellow writer, came into the section, looking hassled, and extremely confused. "What was your message about, Dasha? I couldn't understand it." Ah yes. The ever patient Mugi-chan. I drag her into so much stuff… I held up the photo, an enormous grin in place. "Mugi-chan, meet the real Hogan's Heroes." She gave me one look, and burst out laughing. The clerk gave us a scathing look, but left.

"Mugi-chan, stop laughing. Look, I'll show you." I reached into the box, intending to grab a service record, and my hand brushed a gold object. Everything went black.

* * *

When I touched the gold object, I didn't know how much trouble I was going to be in. Of course, the sight of a black car barreling towards me didn't leave much room for thought. I did the usual thing, and screamed. The driver slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded to a halt. He stepped out, and my heart did the second back flip of the day.

Peter Newkirk. Alive, looking at me, and extremely gorgeous. I tried very hard not to do something stupid, and didn't, thankfully. But I did feel self-conscious, In my tank-top, shorts, and sandals. I managed a "Hello, gorgeous." And I promptly fainted. I blame it on shock.

* * *

A hand grabbed my shoulder, shaking me. I woke up, and socked the offender in the gut. A pained groan brings me fully back to the land of the living, and I see a tall woman standing over me, holding her stomach. I bit my lip, suddenly very shy. "Umm, sorry?" No reply.

Once again, someone touched my shoulder. I turned around, and see Newkirk. He looked a tad frazzled, and maybe just a bit exasperated. It's not my fault. "Um, Peter, where am I?"

Poor Newkirk. I think he just had a heart attack. "Was I not supposed to say that? I mean, I've had a crush, and I really like and I didn't mean to appear in front of your car. Did I cause you to crash? Please say I didn't, cause I can't pay for it-" Newkirk had put his hand over my mouth, forestalling anything I had been going to say.

"This one's worse than Carter. And another bloody Yank. No offense, Colonel." I finally managed to pry his hand off my mouth and said, "Colonel Hogan? As in Robert Hogan? Papa Bear?" Everyone looked at me. Oops. I'm screwed.

"Um, sorry. I tend to babble when I'm excited or nervous, and Colonel Hogan reminds me of a character I saw, err, read, about in a book once. And I'm going to shut up now." Someone pressed a mug into my hands, and I chugged it down, and gagged on the bitter flavor. It's definitely not Arabica bean coffee, but the caffeine helped calm me down. It turned out to be Newkirk who had given me the coffee. His mom probably gave him something to eat or drink to shut him up as a kid, so that would explain it.

The next thing that I did is going to haunt me for the rest of my life. I will regret it, or treasure it, or possibly both. I grabbed Peter Newkirk by the collar of his jacket, and kissed him. Right on the lips, in a way that belongs in trashy romance novels that I detest. On second thought, I'm going to regret this. Every single man in the barracks was wolf whistling or catcalling. But I did enjoy it, and Newkirk kissing back didn't hurt either.

I'm going to sink through the floor in embarrassment the next time I see him. 


	7. Tuttle4077 Part2

**Tuttle4077-2**

**Mama Bear to... Tuttle?**

Golly gee, the things that happen to me. One moment I was in the National Archives in Washington D.C., then next I wasin a damp old tunnel. I had already come to the conclusion that I was absolutely insane. It shouldn't have surprised me, really. It was a long time coming, but I knew it had to happen sooner or later.

So, now what?

Insane or not, I really didn't want to rot down in a tunnel. I definitely had to find a way out. Squinting through the darkness, I searched for an exit sign. Nothing. Just my luck.

Grumbling to myself, I pulled my overcoat closer to protect myself against the damp, cold air in the tunnel and started marching forward. It was a good thing I wasn't claustrophobic, otherwise I'd be in deep trouble. If I saw a rat, however, I'd die on the spot.

This was ridiculous! People just didn't end up in crazy, dark tunnels just like that! It was against the laws of physics or something. Not that I ever took physics, but I'm sure it was in there somewhere.

I was just wondering who I should complain to once I got out of this jam when I suddenly stopped. Great. I had come to a crossroad. Three different ways I could go but every direction led to the same thing—me getting lost. I hated being lost. In fact, I refused to drive into the big city for that exact reason. Of course, that was in a car, in heavy traffic and ridiculous one-way streets. Getting lost on foot wasn't so bad. In fact, my fondest memories were of "getting lost" in the little island city on hot summer days. Of course, you can never really get lost on the—

Babbling again.

With a sigh, I decided to pick one way using the age-old, tried and proven method of success.

Eenie, meanie, miney, moe.

All right, onward!

…Onward!

I was rooted in position. I really, really, really hated being lost. And being lost in a dark, damp tunnel was probably the worst. Sighing and, I admit with great shame, close to tears, I sat down in the middle of the intersection and rested my head in my hands. I couldn't get any more lost as long as I stayed in one place. Heck, at a crossroads like this, someone would eventually find me.

This wasn't a joke anymore. Somehow, someway, I was stuck in a tunnel—a tunnel under what or where I had no clue—on my way to being completely lost and starving to death. Well, maybe not starving to death. In my purse there was still a half-eaten package of licorice from the movie I had seen the week before, a few wintergreen lifesavers and a package of cookies from my flight over. Water was probably going to be a problem though.

I was definitely feeling sorry for myself when a faint noise caught my attention. It sounded like a bunch of static and a voice. Oh good! Life!

Springing to my feet, my worries washing away, I darted forward following where I hoped the noise was coming from. As I picked my way through the darkness, I prayed it was not just my imagination.

Ah-ha, light at the end of the tunnel!

How clichéd.

Oh well, it was better than nothing.

"Oh thank freakin' goodness!" I cried as I entered a lit room. In front of me there was a bunch of electronic equipment sitting on a table. Behind that, there was a ladder! Oh good! Freedom!

I rushed up to it when a voice broke through the static that buzzed from the radio. I knew I should've ignored it—after all, I was the most technologically illiterate person in the world—but my curiosity got the better of me—as always. After a moment of indecision, I sat in front of the equipment and eyed it warily.

"Mama Bear calling Papa Bear," a voice crackled. I went cold. Mama Bear calling Papa Bear? What the? Something was tickling the back of my brain. There was something about this place…

I looked around the room again. It was all so familiar, like I'd been there before. "Mama Bear to Papa Bear. Please come in!" the voice repeated, sounding more urgent.

If someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on me, it wouldn't have been nearly as shocking as the sudden realization that this was _the_ radio room! I had seen it and pictured it a gazillion times. _The_ radio room from Hogan's Heroes. But that was ridiculous! Ridiculous! How in the heck did I end up here?

"Papa Bear, please respond!"

I turned my attention to the radio. Should I answer it? No! Kinch would be down in a moment—Kinch! Kinch! No, no, no! It was ridiculous! Hogan's Heroes was make believe and it's… Holy crap! It was all real! GSjessica was right! Either that or I really was insane!

"Mama Bear to Papa Bear, please respond. It's most important!"

Well, it wouldn't be too hard to answer it. I'd just pass the information to Kinch when I saw him. When I saw him! I let out a small squeal of excitement.

"Whoa there, chicky, slow down," I told myself firmly. After all, if I wasn't crazy and I really was at Stalag 13, there was no guarantee that Kinch wouldn't just shoot me—especially if he saw me sitting at his radio. Kinch? Shoot me? Oh dear!

Besides, I was pretty sure Mama Bear wouldn't talk to me anyway. I certainly didn't sound like either Kinch or Hogan. Or, well, any of the heroes for that matter.

But the voice on the radio was like the ringing of a phone. I just couldn't ignore it! But what was I going to say? "Papa Bear isn't in at the moment, may I take a message?" Yeah, that'd go over well.

Where was Kinch anyway? Didn't he practically live at the radio! I briefly wondered how many messages he might miss in a day while he was up top. But I was sure if they were important, London would keep trying until they did reach him.

How did this thing work anyway? I suddenly wished I had taken that ham radio course with my dad and my sister.

I should've left well enough alone. Really, I should have. But before I really knew what I was doing, my hand was reaching for one of the knobs on the radio. The sound from behind me scared the living daylights out of me. My hand instantly snapped up, hitting against the knob and sending it flying.

"Ow! Friggidy fart nuts!" I shook my hand in the air, scrunching my eyes shut. "Geez, that hurt!"

"What are you doing?" A voice cried. I stiffened in my seat and turned, only to find a surprised and yet very angry Sergeant James Kinchloe jumping down from the ladder and hurrying towards me.

Oh crap!

* * *

**Tuttle note:** I really do have a half-eaten package of licorice and wintergreen lifesavers in my purse—along with many other strange things. I'm not really sure how half that stuff got in there.


	8. GSJessica Part2

**GSJessica-2**

I should have been more afraid of the Germans. 

As Unnamed Extra #2 watched me with a darkly suspicious expression, I realized without shadow of doubt I was a prisoner here in this prison, though not a prisoner of the Germans. This man—who I didn't recall seeing in the show, maybe this real person hadn't been cast in the fictional recreation—would take any measures to see to it I stayed put until Hogan returned. It was a gut-thudding moment of realization. This was not 'welcome'. This was not fun. This was a hard, cold moment of reality. I could try a witty line to confuse him (like what?) or some brilliant Mary Sue-ish karate kick (cripes, no, I couldn't!) and it would all be to no avail. This man—this _soldier_—would take me down and stop me if I made any wrong moves. And there was nothing little, untrained, female me could do to stop him. 

I found myself wondering irrelevantly about my blood pressure just then. I could tell it was up.

Without making any sudden moves, I edged further into the barracks until I could see out a (frosty!) window to see what was happening in the compound. Yes, I really should be more afraid of the Germans. They were the ones with the guns, I thought, as sprays of automatic weapons fire kicked up dirt in the compound and put a damper on the diversionary chaos. 

My God, Hogan was brave! He virtually ignored the lead spewing about, advancing on the Kommandant (It was Klink! It was Klink!) berating him loudly enough I could hear him through the closed window. He gestured to the site of my appearance—dust still settling—then pointed skyward, blaming the Luftwaffe for dropping their top secret test bombs on helpless POWs. It was beautiful. I couldn't help grinning at the pleasure of getting to see the real Hogan in action. Stomping his foot, Klink argued back, futilely, ultimately and inevitably apologizing to Hogan for the incident. 

Harmony restored to Stalag 13, I saw Hogan turn to march back toward Barracks 2. The instant he turned his back on Klink, Hogan's expression changed. His expression changed, and the grin vanished from my face. This man was no sitcom character. This wasn't a cheerful Bob Crane playing a role with a bit of dash and charm. This Hogan was a real man in a perpetually perilous situation. His life, the lives of his command and, as far as he knew, possibly the outcome of the war hinged on his ability to maintain the incredible secret of this base of operations.

If I could get through this window before Unnamed Extra #2 got to me, and I summoned Schultz, or one of the other guards, and if I could just get to Klink… Klink was an old world gentleman. He'd help me; help a woman. And I could blunder along in enough German and other languages to at least keep him from realizing I was an American… Mercy! I was thinking of Klink and the Germans as my rescuers. 

No trace of smile lingered on my face as the barracks' door opened and Hogan stepped in, his eyes immediately locking onto me. His look burned that dopey fangirl 'squee' moment out of me more thoroughly than the guards' spray of lead had done. This man—Hogan—was dangerous. And deadly. To me. I knew with absolute certainty that should he decide I was an irresolvable risk to his organization he would personally end my life and bury my body down in one of the tunnels. As the others entered—Kinchloe, Carter, Newkirk, LeBeau—and I saw their matching expressions, I knew Hogan wouldn't have to dig the grave himself. There were no delicate consciences to sooth in this group. No group therapy, kumbaya huggy harmony moments of pop psychology to consider. They wouldn't talk about their feelings nor fret over one of their number being 'troubled' by what had to be done. This group of hardened soldiers would do what they decided they must and sleep well afterwards. And if, perchance, one did not sleep well, he would never mention his weakness to the others.

Hogan addressed me, in German, and yes, his accent and pronunciation were correct, though he sounded more-or-less Bavarian to me, rather than the Berlinisch I'd imagined (and spoke myself, though at a touristy level). I did understand what he said, mostly, but couldn't have come up with an answer in German to save my life (which created another reality-thud to the gut). All that came to mind in German were the naughty words and phrases my grandma had taught me. Thanks, grandma. Not the time, not the time…

"I, uh… I'm not German," I managed to get out past an incredibly tight throat. Scrub 'spy' off my list of potential new careers. I ain't got what it takes!

"What were you doing out there?" Hogan asked, slowly enunciating. 

"Out there?" I echoed blankly. "I wasn't out.. I was in, uh…" Brilliant performance. 

"Sounds Canadian," Newkirk commented. Huh? Oh, yeah. The 'out's. I get that a lot outside of my home state up in 'da nord'. Not that I mind be taken for Canadian. We like Canada. Especially the walleye.

"No, I'm, uh, American." Blast it! I do not normally speak with 'uhs' strewn about. I usually speak quite well. 

"American," Hogan echoed, then questioned me slowly, patiently, and in depth about my origins. I think he was mostly listening to my accent and the way I spoke, probing for flaws. It did occur to me I was from one of the most heavily German-American states in the union, which he undoubtedly knew. I grew a tad more lightheaded as I recalled that the town next to mine was supposed to have been one of the headquarters of the American Nazis during the war. I don't know if that was true, but Hogan might. How many bodies were buried in those tunnels?

As we spoke, there was a calculated relaxation in the room. Hogan casually turned to the stove, pouring himself a cup of coffee. They ushered me to a stool at the table, putting a cup of coffee into my hands. I clutched it tightly. As I said, the relaxation was calculated, not real, designed to put me at ease and get me to—I don't know—open up, reveal myself, slip up…

Then came the moment we all knew was coming. Hogan asked me how it was I happened to be appearing with a bang and cloud of dust in the middle of the compound. 

"I don't know."

I held his eyes after that. I didn't need my wedding ring cutting into my finger as I clutched the coffee cup to remind me there'd be no moronic romantic moments with Hogan. He'd already called me _ma'am_ at least three times. While I had a fearful respect for Hogan, I'd also developed a rather firm dislike of him. And how 'bout that? Hadn't expected that one, had I?

The next step was into his office, which looked just as it had on television, except the pictures of women on the walls tended toward the naked and graphic. This was not a TV-G rated room. It also had that… how to put this delicately… _man smell_ about it. 

Then they searched me. Kinchloe was dismissed. A black man in this era would not be present when anything remotely intimate concerning a white woman was taking place. Just. Not. Done. However 'enlightened' Hogan and his men may have been about a mixed-race command, inviolable cultural requirements of the time still directed them. 

Interestingly, Carter was assigned to do the pat-down. Believe-you-me, he was thorough, though there was not a hint of groping, nor taking advantage. He simple searched. Maybe that was why Carter was the one chosen to do the pat-down. Hogan, Newkirk, or even LeBeau, would have taken the opportunity for a quick feel. The frisking didn't fluster me (not much). I'd been through too many post-9-11 airport security checks for that. Hogan's relentless study and observation of me still frightened me, even as it gave me insight into his character and the success in this operation. Those leaps of intuition he—the later portrayal of him on the TV show—displayed hadn't been so much 'leaps' as the result of exacting observation and analysis of minutia. 

So, you see, Hogan could tell I'd been frisked before. What did that tell him? Extremely few American women in the 1940s would have been searched thus. Any other woman would have been very upset by the process. Couple this with my extremely wrong attire. The wool sweater was probably okay (though Carter's hands faltered over the sports bra), but a woman wearing jeans? Men didn't even wear jeans unless they were shoveling manure out of a barn. My hair… colored, highlighted, stylishly—but not for now—cut and dead-straight in a curled hair era. No lipstick. Makeup just not 1940's style. I probably looked freakish to them.

Assured I was unarmed, and unresisting, Hogan dismissed the others and seated himself at his desk, scrutinizing me. Lady, or no (I'm afraid I fell into his 'no' category), he left me standing. This from a man who'd _kissed_ that female Gestapo colonel?! Or was that just TV fiction? 

"You don't offer a lady a seat?" I took the chance; had to assert my position now or never.

There was that Hogan smile and charm! It had been the right call on my part. As he stood, pushing the stool over for me with a gracious gesture, I somehow thought of all those Mary Sue fics with the smart-mouthed girls, yet Hogan was more affected by a simple reminder of manners. 

"So," he said, leaning against his desk, where the contents of my purse had been dumped, "I've seen M&Ms, but not in any kind of package like this." He picked up the plastic/paper package. "And this…" he went through the anachronisms in my belongings one by one. I said nothing, letting him catalog while I struggled to come up with an amazing Hogan-esque tale to tell him that would make it all okay and—adding to the fantasy—get me back to my own time unscathed. 

"Then there's your identity card…" He picked up my drivers license, complete with holograms imbedded. "It's a brilliant forgery," he said, "but I'm not sure a forgery of what? Date of birth… is that a joke? All right—" His voice went hard again. "Who are you? Where do you come from? How did you get here? And what do you want?"

Letting out a long breath, I decided on the truth. I have no ability to lie, and Hogan had the keen observational and interpretive skills to detect any amateurish lies. I told it straight up, head to tail. He didn't interrupt, though he certainly had questions. He also clearly didn't believe me. Why would he? Even all his fantastic adventures, even if only a fraction of those in the TV show were true, were still grounded in hard reality.

How to prove my tale? I could take apart my cell phone and show him the circuitry. It was a technology that clearly didn't exist in the here-and-now. But would a man who'd never seen past vacuum tubes, hadn't even seen transistors, recognize and understand miniature printed circuits? Or would it just be a… a… _gonculator_ to him?

At least I could power the phone up and show him the screen. He might have seen early television, especially if he'd been in Germany before the war. They had broadcast the Olympics to a limited television audience. Hogan's eyes did widen at the screen coming to life and displaying its graphics. Feeling somewhat foolish again, I simply could not stop myself from checking the bars to see if I had a signal. My heart did that tightening thing again. Satellites and cell towers were a long ways off. 

Hogan either bought my tale, or decided to play along until he figured out the truth. I think he did believe me. There was that Hogan-moment I knew so well with a small shift in expression, stance, look in his eyes, that said "okay". 

But as to the little gold time travel gadget… "Sounds like magic to me," he said, the coldness in his voice back in force. "And I don't believe in magic."

With a shrug, I answered, "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." Even as I said it, I felt myself flush. Had I just created a paradox by quoting Sir Arthur Clarke before he created the quote? Had my saying it here in the past been the initial source that fed the thought to Clarke? Or had I created a new time line? Or would this drop in the ocean pass unnoticed in the vastness of time and space. Or… I understood the conundrums of time travel and its potential paradoxes at an intrinsic level now. However time travel may be possible, it's likely to drive the participants mad. 

Hogan gave one of his classic frowns, folded his arms across his chest and turned away to pace. I could have given him the stage direction on his very actions, so true to the television portrayal of himself did he act. 

"Okay," Hogan said, in his 'decision made' tone of voice, "if the Nazis have found, or built, a device that allows time travel. We have to find it and stop them. We're fighting to stop the Nazis in the present. We sure as hell don't want to have to fight them again in the future. They have to end now, whatever the cost." 

The cost? I swallowed. My own return through time which—believe me!—I had mentioned, several times, was dismissed. 'Collateral damage' wasn't a 1940's term, but I was sure thinking it. If my return through time made it into Hogan's mission, it would be just because he found a way to use it to achieve his goal. Oh, he would do what he could for me, but little ol' me was not high on the priority list. 

Muttering something about quantum mechanics and German physicists, Hogan fell into one of his planning-plotting-scheming modes. I squirmed on the stool, wondering as I had been for some minutes now, about the never-seen bathroom facilities in Barracks 2. The blunt realities of life never seem to make it into fantasy scenarios, and I had drunk the coffee. 

Just as I was about to forthrightly ask, Hogan turned to me with a dark, probing stare. I squirmed even more. 

"Does anyone else know about this?"

Ooh… Photo, text message, mailing list… 

"Um… well…" The stuttery thing was back, too. Great spy I was. "Some others may show up. Maybe."


	9. IronAmerica Part2

**IronAmerica-2**

So, I've been stuck in the insanely real world of Hogan's Heroes for about three hours. I wonder if Mugi-chan has contacted the police yet? Maybe the clerk called my mom, and told her that I've disappeared off the face of the earth forever. She is going to be so mad.

Which brings me to my other problem. I am not a morning person, especially when I've gone for three days straight without sleep. Also, I start seeing things after major doses of caffeine. I had been drinking lots of coffee prior to this. So, I thought it was a girl I had socked in the gut, but it was a guy. I am so dead. It was Carter, and now I have to think up a way to apologize to him. I feel really bad about hitting him, and I really do want to make some friends in this mixed-up place.

And now, for my biggest problem. How the HELL am I going to explain myself to Peter? I'm not old enough to drink, and I kissed a guy who's at least a decade older than me. Maybe Kinch would know how I could apologize to Peter.

"Mr. Kinchloe, can I ask you a question?" The tall African-American looks at me suspiciously. "Um, I know that you may not like the fact that all of us girls are showing up her, but I kinda need your help with a problem." He looks at me, a look of something akin to disgust on his face. Have I done something to offend him? I hope I didn't, cause I'm still sad about the death of the actor that played him.

"Sergeant, I need to know how to apologize to Carter and Newkirk." Might as well be blunt. "I'd talk to Olsen, but he's busy dodging some of the others, Colonel Hogan is busy trying to find out how to get rid of us, and I can't talk to Helga or Hilda. And you are kinda the most logical choice. I mean, you're brave, funny, intelligent, and you're also the most level-headed." Something akin to amazement or shock is now spreading across his face.

Level-headed Kinch looks like he's sucking on a lemon. "Just apologize to them. Now, as you said, we are all busy trying to figure out how to get rid of you. So…" I get the hint and leave, after giving him a hug. Okay, yeah. I'm an impulsive, idiotic teenager, who has possibly given one of the Heroes a heart attack. Lucky me.

* * *

First off, Carter. I finally retrieve my backpack, which has been sifted through extensively. Luckily, most of it has been left alone. My lucky jacket is missing though. I need to find that. I grab a thermos out of the interior, and head to find Carter. 

"Carter?" The chemist turns around, and looks at me. I hold out the thermos. "Do you want to share a milkshake?" Yeah, I hid a milkshake in my thermos. What can I say, I like peanut butter milkshakes. The smile that spread across his face was blinding. He really is the kid brother of the group, I realize. No wonder he's so naive. They seem to feel the need to protect him from everything.

Half an hour later, we're sitting on a bench, and eating ice-cream, discussing anything that comes to mind. Finally, a subject comes up that I've been dreading. "So, Dasha, why'd ya kiss Newkirk?" Had to come up sometime, I guess.

"Well, you know how most of us who keep popping up around here know almost every detail of your operation?" He nods. "Well, I found a picture of him about four or five years ago, and fell in love. He was adorable in that picture, and I guess that seeing him in real life short-circuited my brain." He laughs softly, and something akin to wistfulness appears in his eyes. Oops. I remember season one just then. Carter's fiancée dumped him, and I probably brought it back to the surface. "Carter, are you okay?" He nods, looking lost. I push the thermos into his hands. "Here you go, Carter. You can have the rest." He nods, and digs in, a childish smile on his face. Time to find Newkirk.

* * *

I finally found Newkirk in a barracks, holding what looks like a poker tournament. I just walk in, and close the door behind me. I thought I had been quiet, but every head turns towards me. I feel suddenly grateful that I packed a set of surplus military fatigues in my backpack. They were already undressing me with their eyes. Darn things were too tight.

"Um hi. May I watch?" They instantly remember the game, and turn back to their cards. Newkirk smiles at me impishly (insert fan girl SQUEE here), and gestures for me to come sit beside him. I do, and watch the game progress. Immediately, I can tell that he's rigged the decks that he's using, because he's got almost every single ace. Either that, or he's an exceptionally lucky man.

As the game dies down, I begin to see why Newkirk is my favorite. He's funny, good at getting out of scrapes, drop-dead gorgeous, and a perfect gentleman. As soon as the last player leaves, I turn to Newkirk, intending to apologize. But, as soon as I open my mouth, he stops me. "Luv, I think I know what you're 'ere for. Just so you know, there ain't nothing to apologize for. I enjoyed it, an' apparently, so did you." Good Lord, he's smarter than the show said he was. My respect for him nearly triples. "So, can I call you Peter?" Now that was a dumb, spur-of-the-moment question.

All Peter does is grin. I took that as a yes. "Thanks, Peter. Um, shouldn't we probably be leaving right about now? People will talk." In the 1940's it was considered improper for a man and a woman to be alone on their first date, as far as I knew. And I don't think this counted as a date, but it was the closest I was getting.

"You're right there. We probably should leave. Just let me get my winnings-" The door opens, and who should come in, but Schultz. Huh. How am I going to get out of this one? Schultz solves it himself. "Newkirk, why is there a girl here? You know it is verboten. Please, Newkirk, it would be worth my life. If the Kommandant were to find out about all these strange things, I would be -"

I can't resist. "Sent to the Russian Front." The look on Schultz's face is priceless. "Schultz, 'ow would it look, you finding a bird on your watch? The kommandant would want to know 'ow she got in 'ere in the first place." Newkirk, you are a genius. Schultz wisely backs off, babbling about how he never saw me, he never went into the barracks, and he never got up that morning.

"Peter, you are a genius" I say, and kiss him on the cheek. Okay, I am now over my initial embarrassment, and can safely kiss Peter, without looking like a fire hydrant. He gathers up what he won, and head back for Barracks Two. Straight into a disapproving looking Colonel Hogan.

"Newkirk, inside. You," he says pointing to me, "are going to stay here, and tell me why you are bribing my men." Huh? Bribing who? My confusion must have been evident, because he holds up a distinctive purple and blue thermos. Oh, crap.

"Um, Colonel? I- I wasn't bribing anyone. I w-was just apologizing to Carter." He is definitely not the loveable teddy bear that Bob Crane portrayed him as. Colonel Hogan is obviously not convinced. Time to pull out the big guns. " Colonel, may I speak frankly?" He nods. " Sir, I was not bribing anyone. If I were intending to collapse your operation, I would have gone to Klink, and called your local Gestapo. However, I have no love for the Gestapo, for reasons I won't explain."

He doesn't look convinced, but my dad is in the military, so I can sort of read military men. He looked disapproving still, but I could tell that he accepted my story. Phew. Crisis averted. And hopefully, I'll never have to do something like this again. 


	10. Catalyna Part 2

**Catalyna-2**

It wasn't until I reached the stump and Newkirk had gone down I thought of another problem

It wasn't until I reached the stump I thought of something: Newkirk had gone down and I was expected follow him, while Olsen would then take the rear. But, I realized that at that angle Newkirk was down there, he could look up my skirt. Not only for modesty's sake, but I realized my underwear was not exactly what was in vogue for the 1940s. I remembered that the underwear was well, rather large and droopy, not exactly my cotton knit bikinis. Especially in the psychedelic pattern; even if it were a muted green. The best I could hope for would be my panty-hose would disguise them.

"Damn and Blast!" They didn't have panty hose, or at least not the kind I had on. Dancers wore a type of tights, but anyone taking a look at me would see I'm not a dancer. I wasn't even sure mine were made out of nylon. At least they were silky sheer.

"Move away from the ladder a bit. I don't want you to look up."

"Look, Luv, I'm not trying to get a gander at your knickers. Just come on down, I'll catch you if you slip." But, to my relief Newkirk did move slightly back.

Luckily not too far, as I did have a small problem with the ladder, missing a step and sliding down half-way. I also think he did get a glimpse of well-rounded thighs, when my skirt kept rising as I was going down. Olsen came down after purposely missing several bottom rungs and landing with a thud on the tunnel's well-packed earthen floor. Show off.

As they were leading me through the tunnels, I noticed a variety of smells, the earth of the tunnel, an oily smell probably of any one of the many machines they had down there, and the smell of men. Okay, this bothered me most. I realized that deodorant is fairly recent widespread use and these men were probably only bathing once every two weeks, so it shouldn't have been a surprise, but it was. This is what struck me; making everything real: the ripe smell of men and I do not mean that in a good way.

I was also silently thinking, as I made my way down the tunnels, "they are going to ask me questions. My name for one."

My own name, both first and last, were common German names: not good.

Well, there was my online name: Catalyna. Nope, how many women born in the 1890s were named that? (I remembered this piece of triva while researching a cross-over between Dorothy Sayer's Lord Peter Wimsey and Hogan's Heroes. I had realized Lord Peter would have been 50 by the time of WWII and was thrilled to find the story would work.)

Cat would be simpler, they could figure it out for themselves if it was short for Catherine or something else. Okay one down: last name? How about my mothers? I was told it originally meant "gone to war" in Dutch. No, not a very auspicious name. My mother's very English grandmother's name? Reeger. Yeah, Cat Reeger. It sounded like a stippers' name. I was trying to be a lady. In this time, gentlemen protected ladies; the other type usually had to fend on their own.

It wasn't until we had reached the radio room when I had decided on a name. Then I saw Hogan, leaning against the desk, talking with Kinchloe. Change that; when he looked at me I realized this was COLONEL Hogan another person entirely. Serious, frowning and no twinkle in the eye. I wanted my Hogan with the twinkle.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Another one. Olsen caught her outside the stump."

Colonel Hogan took a deep breath and looked at me. There was a presence here, a bulk, a… a… yeah, presence that no TV could show. Right now, I felt like a small shrub in a forest of giants. Oh where, oh where was LeBeau? I don't think he could help me, but at least he would bring the height average down.

Colonel Hogan ignored me for the moment and asked Newkirk if I had any identification. I could have answered that if he bothered to ask me. No, my purse was back at the Archives. Hopefully, some clerk had picked it up and wound up calling my sister to let her know I had disappeared. Guiltily, I realized my dogs and bird were now all alone, with no one to take care of them. They would be there waiting and I wouldn't come back; waiting at the window, watching every passerby hoping for me to come home…I started to cry.

I can tell you right now, I'm not one of those women who can look beautifully dewy when I cry. In spite of being mostly a girly girl growing up that is one talent I have never learned. Tears come forth from the eyes washing any makeup away in the flood; the nose becomes a red slime water fall; the lips are rubbery, red, wet, elastic inner tubes. All in all: not at a pretty sight.

I hadn't quite gotten to the wailing stage, so it wasn't until Colonel Hogan had asked Olsen and Newkirk if I had been searched, that they noticed I was crying. I was slightly mollified when the Colonel pinched the bridge of his nose as Hogan did when he was frustrated. But, he did produce a clean handkerchief for me.

He motioned to Newkirk and Olsen to take me to a side tunnel to do the frisk. I silently prayed that this time, they were definitely not like their TV counterparts as they would be most likely to cop a feel. I don't care if this was real or not, I'm not for the odd thrill. Where was that nice Carter. I knew he wouldn't, or would he here?

I followed, taking off my shoes on the way. It was just a habit from traveling on airlines; you always take off your shoes for them to search while you get patted down if you are the lucky one to get such special treatment.

They did seem surprised to see my shoes in my hand. "What are these for?" asked Olsen.

"Don't you want to make sure I don't have a bomb in them?" Maybe I shouldn't be so helpful?

As Olsen (he actually was being a gentleman; I didn't feel any more awkward with him as one of the women security at the airport) was patting me down, I think he was trying to calm me by asking me my name.

"Cat, (sniff) Cat Ballou."

I will forever swear on my mother's grave that this was not the name I had thought of in the tunnel. Why I said it, I'll never know. I think this should have been my first clue to keep my mouth shut afterward.

"Nice name. French?"

"Non, (sniff, sniff) je ne parle pas français, je suis une américaine." Hadn't a clue why I answered in French. Since I hadn't taken French since elementary school I wasn't even sure it was good French.

Olsen just sort gave a half smile and a snort, "Yeah, we know. You're an American."

He stopped and gave me a questioning look when he felt the underwires of my bra.

"Underwires." I helpfully explained.

He looked more confused.

"You know, gravity fighters."

"Gravity fighters?"

"You know," here I cupped my hands in front of me just below my breast line and swiftly brought them up to my own. "Gravity fighters."

I was rewarded by Olsen and Newkirk turning beet red. "Gravity fighters."

Now they took me back to the Colonel.

"She's clean," reported Newkirk.

"Name's Cat Ballou. Or so she claims," added Olsen.

"Okay, Mrs. Ballou, where are you from?" started the Colonel, gesturing to a seat.

"Not Mrs., Ms." I automatically corrected sitting down. No, not Ms not until the late 1970s. "I mean Miss."

I hoped he just thought I couldn't get it out because of the aftermath of crying.

"_Miss_ Ballou, then, where are you from?"

"D.C., you know, Washington, D.C. I work for a PIG there." I was talking fast until I realized: Uh oh. First rule when you are being interrogated: you just answer what was asked. You don't volunteer other information. I had a feeling it was going to get worse. Especially, when I had just realized in this timeline, I was a Miss Grundy. Some old spinster.

Did anyone even use the word spinster in 2008? Although I was wearing a simple short-sleeved, moderately cut, V-necked black sweater, in some ways it made it worse: I was Miss Grundy ready for a night on the town. A very tame night on the town. A very pitiful, tame, night on the town.

"Miss Ballou, we don't care about the personalities of the people you work for right now," Colonel Hogan was steering the conversation back.

Tears started again welling in my eyes.

Now I want to take a moment to explain a theory I have: the brain and the mouth are not necessarily connected. I don't care what medical men or scientists say. There have been times when my brain has been otherwise occupied, my mouth had slipped the lead and bounded off over meadows and fields gaily saying all sorts of nonsense to people I would rather impress, while my brain has been running behind, yelling, "Shut up. Shut up, SHUT UP!" I'm quite sure this has happened to most people one time or other in their life whether they admit it or not.

Such a thing was happening now. My brain was trying to comprehend these were real people, and I had somehow traveled back into time. I could be in real danger. It was trying to control the impulse to cry with abandon. My mouth, seeing a hole in the fence, decided to slip through and off it ran.

"No, I mean I work for a public interest group. Mr. Raymond is actually a very nice man. But, I just went to the Archives Building during my lunch hour. I didn't mean any harm, but GSJessica told the list that we would find something interesting there and since I hadn't heard of anyone else going, I just went…" I kept on talking faster.

"G.S. Jessica?" Colonel Hogan interrupted, saying the first two letters as if expecting them to be a rank. "What is his full name?"

"I think he's a she. I don't know her real name. Most of us on the list just go by aliases. They're from all over the U.S. I think we have an Aussie for sure, maybe one or two Canadians, I know at least one German… " Oh, my bad. Yeah, I'm on a list of people who just use aliases, who are from all over the world and I reside in D.C. That sounds harmless: NOT. But, the mouth is not to be discouraged.

"I did have a purse, but it was left in D.C. when I came here, it has all my id, money and credit cards…OH! Someone could have found my purse and stolen my identity. And my dogs… my dogs and bird…" okay, waterworks are on again.

"But, anyways, I'm here, I don't know any one and I want to gooooo hooooooooome. I don't like it AAAnd you don't have a twinkle!"


	11. Niente Zero Part 2

**Niente Zero-2**

The biggest double-edged sword about wandering into someone else's world was that -unlike the characters I'd analyzed, oh, fine, broken down and built back up again through fire and the sword, metaphorically speaking, I couldn't look at any of the Heroes and just plain KNOW what it was that was going on behind their faces. How their minds were ticking over. I didn't know, "Well, this one had a rough childhood, and he's always been a sucker for a crying female type person." Or "That one really doesn't like women all that much, we know this from his actions in episodes X, Y and Z"

All I could see was a bunch of men in uniforms looking mighty unimpressed at my squalling. The up side was I didn't have to feel agonized by every twitch of expression that revealed hidden depths of misery the way I did with my own boys.

"Sit down." Colonel Hogan said, his voice sounding both weary and in just the faintest measure annoyed.

"If I question you, you're going to tell me some tall tale. I don't care if you're going to try to pass yourself off as belonging here, or if you're going to tell me," this was accompanied by the smallest sneer, "that you got here through means that I can't understand. What I do know is that you people are jeopardizing my mission, and my men"

He was dead serious. Of course he was. If there were other people who'd seen GSjessica's message, if they'd ended up here after going to the archives - heck, if GSjessica had ended up here, it must have been a disruption to say the least. I no longer felt merely shaken and scared. I found myself worrying for the men, for what they were doing.

If it was all real, then these men had a job to do. A job that was probably part of saving my grandmother's life. My aunt, too. They were bombed out constantly during the blitz, but survived the war because brave men and women did bold deeds. And boring deeds, all the poor saps at Bletchley Park working their fingers to the bone to beat the Germans through intelligence. If all this was real, then these men were a part of the Allied intelligence machine that I had admired, that I had been awed by, and that had been fighting desperately against the almost equally formidable Axis intel forces.

I might have sworn, out loud. Actually, yeah, I did. The big F. Because suddenly this wasn't just weird and funny. It bothered me. On a fundamental level. I was screwed, but - what if I had just touched the wrong thing and became a part of something that helped the Allies lose?

Let's get back to the part where I swore out loud. Heh. Those men were NOT used to hearing a relatively soft spoken and decently attired woman drop that word. There was a collective intake of breath. I guessed I had not done myself ANY favors there.

I got a quick, backhanded slap. The Colonel. "Don't go getting hysterical on me!" he barked sharply.

Oh well, that was a charitable interpretation on his part of a woman being pressed to the extreme to use that word. For me, it's an unfortunately frequent part of my normal speech. But I guess combined with bursting into sobs, hysteria was a reasonable assumption.

I looked around the room. Carter looked like someone dropped a bag of rocks on his foot or something. Newkirk, sly dog, said "You can't expect much more from a convict"

Greaaat. That never got old. But this was not time to tell him off for being a whinging Pom and inform him that the Australian cricket team would go on to DOMINATE England in the Ashes series over the course of the next half century. If I hadn't accidentally lost the war for us.

Colonel Hogan stood up and prowled. For all that I found that dominant, leadership personality tremendously stirring, it wasn't entirely pleasant to be on the receiving end of his sharp attention.

He shook his head. "Why FEMALES?" I heard him say under his breath. For all his reputation as a ladies' man, apparently that didn't apply to a bunch of random drop-ins. I suspected I wasn't his type anyway.

"Listen, uh." I said. "I'm really sorry about this whole mess. I, ah, well, I have a grandmother in London. Oh, and a grandfather. But they're not m"  
I nearly blurted out that they weren't married yet, but that would have been a mistake. (And yes, I DID say I had an aunt already... family scandal!) "They're not aware that I'm here." I corrected myself quickly. "If there's any way I could -" again I stopped myself. I wasn't supposed to know they helped people escape to England. "If I could risk a break out, or -I don't know- I need to get to London"

Wrong move. I should have given Hogan and his men more credit for smarts. "Just exactly what is it you think you know?" Hogan demanded, turning sharply to face me. I could feel the eyes of the others, particularly Sergeant Kinchloe, who was after all responsible for so much of the communication with London, boring into me.

Gulp.


	12. LJ Groundwater Part 2

**LJ Groundwater-2**

**Interrogation**

I should be thrilled being in Colonel Hogan's office, but I'm not. Oh, I'm curious enough: I look around from the spot on his bottom bunk that Le Beau practically pushed me into, but I'm not daring enough to walk around. For the first thirty seconds after I've been warned against making any noise or coming out and the door is slammed as if to make a point, I simply sit there, doing nothing. I stare at the floor, and I just try to let it all sink in. I register the discomfort of the lower bunk—not the crummy mattress, that could be swapped around—but there's a slat that creaks when I shift. _Well, that explains why he sleeps up top. _Eventually, the voices outside filter through, and I realize that I can hear Sergeant Schultz, and Kommandant Klink. Wow. _Wow!_ But there's something different... the accents seem much stronger. The voices don't seem so harmless. And Colonel Hogan doesn't sound so happy-go-lucky. Yikes.

I try to close that idea out of my mind and let my eyes wander around the room for me. There are photos on Colonel Hogan's walls—the ones I'm used to seeing, and one or two that I've never noticed before. I study Hogan's desk from afar. There's the old tin can doubling as a pencil holder. And heaven help me, underneath it—oh, my goodness... is that a cord? Oh, I have to get up... I have to. Taking a quick glance toward the door, registering that the voices are still audible from outside, I stand and move as quietly as I can to the desk. Looking underneath, I try not to touch as I see that the cord leads to... oh my... oh... _my_! That's it. There's the coffee pot. But does it do what it's supposed to? Or was that part not real? Maybe this only brews coffee! But if that's the case, why is it in Colonel Hogan's office, and half hidden under his desk? I try to examine it without touching it, but when that's not possible, I give up and decide to explore some more.

Well, while I'm at the desk... Good grief. There's Colonel Hogan's Bible. I've written it into stories before, and I know that it's for sure an important part of a lot of prisoners' lives, but I was never sure it was actually going to be there. But there it is. I smile, and have to reach out to touch it, noticing that it's not as dog-eared as repeated use would have it be. But it's definitely used, and that's good enough for me. I can't help myself; I open the cover. Sure enough, inside there are his initials—no rank, strangely enough, making me think he got this book sometime before he became a Colonel. Just "R. E. Hogan" in neat handwriting, and a serial number underneath it—the one I know by heart. The one that was on that strange box I looked at in the National Archives: 0876707.

I wonder what he's feeling when he turns to this book. It's out on his desk, where he would see it every day, not on the shelf near his upper bunk—yup, the shelf is there, all right, I check to make sure—with the others. Does that mean he uses it more often, or less? I should probably be saying a few prayers myself; I'm not sure "Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod," counts as prayer, technically.

I have a sudden urge to look at the Colonel's closet. _"My hat. You stabbed my hat,"_ flits through my brain, and for a brief second I smile, remembering Colonel Crittendon, wondering if he is real, too. I move closer to the closet and look for the stab hole. It isn't there. Maybe I just can't see it. Maybe there wasn't much of a puncture in the first place and it was confined to the hat.

I run my hand along the door. I know what's inside—well, some of what's inside. I want to look at his dress jacket and really study all the decorations on them, but I don't think I could take a chance on that without getting myself in real trouble.

The enormity of what's happening here suddenly hits me. This all looks wonderfully familiar—almost comforting, that is—but it's not a virtual reality game that I can leave any time I want. I'm here, in a POW camp in the middle of Nazi Germany, with only a limited understanding of how I got here, and _absolutely_ no idea how to get back. And while I know that... well, at least in my writing, Colonel Hogan and his men can be trusted to do the right thing, they don't know that _I_ can be trusted. And if the Colonel doesn't end up believing me, he could have me sent back to London for interrogation—or... whatever... and then I'll end up even further away from where I landed when I got here—if that's important, I don't want to mess with it.

Still, I reflect, reluctantly turning away from the closet, he _did_ leave me alone in his office. Okay, so there's a fella from Barracks 9 sitting out in the common room, probably about six inches outside this door, to make sure I don't get out. But at least Colonel Hogan didn't shove me in the tunnel. Or maybe he thought I'd get more information down there than I would up here.

And at least he made Le Beau give me some clothes so I don't stand out if I'm caught outside this room. The weather is unseasonably cold—that is, if it's May where I am now, too. I hadn't thought of that before. Maybe I didn't land in May. I mean, if I landed in a different year, I might have landed in a different _month_!

I'll worry about that later.

I run my hands through my always-too-thick black hair. I don't even know how to begin to explain myself, and even if I did, I don't know that anyone would believe me. How could they, when I'm not sure I believe it myself?

I must have been deep in thought because I am startled when the door opens and Colonel Hogan is standing there studying me. I'd love to think he's looking into my eyes because he thinks I'm beautiful. But I'm not an idiot—I know I'm dirty and my hair is rarely tame-able and I don't look exactly ravishing in Le Beau's clothes. He might be my size, but we don't have the same proportions, that's for sure. I always said men didn't have hips. And, well, Le Beau doesn't have breasts, either.

But the look in Colonel Hogan's eyes isn't one of unrestrained adoration. It's one of suspicion and, if I'm reading those dark eyes properly (I've paid a lot of attention to them on television _and_ in my writing, after all), of curiosity. I try to look back without wavering. Unnervingly enough, it's hard. I never thought I'd find it hard to look at him.

Colonel Hogan tilts his head slightly to the side and crosses his arms in front of him. I breathe more easily for a second at that. I know that stance, I think: I'm about to be interrogated. I don't know anything about old baseball players, so maybe that will prove I'm not a Kraut. Ha! I'm using the terms. _Kraut._

Then he speaks his first words to me: "Are you thirsty? Hungry?"

The tone is gruff, but I don't feel any real anger behind them. How cranky can you be if the first thing you do is offer someone food?

I think for a second. "Uh... no. I'm okay for now."

"Le Beau will make supper soon. You don't want the stuff from the mess hall. Take my word for it; we don't even force Schultz to eat it all the time." He pauses. "You know who Schultz is, don't you?" he guesses.

I nod reluctantly. "I think so," I say, almost apologetically.

"And Newkirk says you knew who _I_ was, too. And where you are. And about the layout of the tunnel." Colonel Hogan comes further into the room, heads toward his desk. I edge toward the bunks, nodding again. I never thought I'd back away from an American hero whom I've never imagined myself being afraid of.

"I see." Colonel Hogan leans on his desk and crosses his arms comfortably. I know that look—it's calculated to make him look like he's relaxed in your presence. But he's not. I think of how good a spy he's supposed to be, and realize that this growing sense of unease around him helps keep him in control of situations. He's in charge here, I mean _really_. "How'd you get into the tunnel?"

_Oh, boy, this is gonna be good._ "I don't know," I answer softly—respectfully, I think is the word I'd have to use here. I'm certainly not going to be uppity. "I just kind of... found myself there."

"You _found_ yourself there," he repeats.

"Yes, sir."

"And how long were you there before Newkirk and Carter found you?"

"Oh, not long," I answer, happy to possibly relieve a bit of the anxiety about my presence. I look into Colonel Hogan's eyes now and wish I could find acceptance there. At the moment, there isn't any, and that statement doesn't seem to help. "Only about a minute," I add, nodding.

Colonel Hogan dismisses that line of questioning and takes another tack. "What's this about you coming from Washington?" he asks quickly.

"Well, that's where I was until a few minutes ago," I blurt out. Wow, how stupid does _that_ sound? But the way he asked, I _had_ to say something—like, _now_. I can't imagine being a prisoner and being interrogated this way. What if I was trying to hide something? "I mean, I was in the National Archives—"

"And you found a box," the Colonel continues.

My eyes widen. "Yes!"

"And you touched a... gold thing inside it and suddenly you ended up here."

I nod several times. "Yes. Yes!" Don't tell me this whole thing was a plan—that it's happening, and has happened, before!

"And you have no idea how to get out of here, do you?" the Colonel asks, as though he already suspects the answer.

My enthusiastic nodding stops instantly. "Uh... no," I answer quietly.

"I thought so." Colonel Hogan pauses for a moment, and then runs his hands over his face. I'm making him weary. No kidding, I thought that was just for writing, but I'm seriously wearing the man thin. "Tell me what's in Washington," he says to me now.

"Oh," I say, wondering if this is my "baseball" interrogation—will he think of me as a "petunia" in their garden? "Well... there's the White House, of course. The Lincoln Memorial, Jefferson Memorial. Washington Monument." I pause.

"Tell me about the war memorials."

_Oh, boy. _"Well, there's the Wall, a memorial to Vietnam vets, and there's the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington—it has remains of soldiers from World War Two, Korea, Vietnam, even the Gulf War and—"

"Korea and Vietnam?"

"Yes."

"And when did Americans fight there?"

"In the—" _Oh, boy._ "Korea in the early 1950s. Vietnam from the mid-1960s to mid-1970s."

There's a long silence. I don't know what I was expecting; I must sound like a fruitcake. Finally, the Colonel sits down on the stool at the desk. "Who sent you here?" he asks.

"No one."

"Do you know anyone else who's come here?"

I shake my head. "No, sir. I mean, I'd heard about the box from someone I met online—I mean, someone who I had contact with—but I didn't know that anyone had ever—_could_ ever—come here."

"Why did you come?"

"I didn't mean to, Colonel; honest!" _Why do I sound like Carter?_ "It just happened. And honestly, I'd do anything to get out of here—I mean, I know I can trust you, and Carter and Newkirk and Kinch, and even Le Beau, even though he doesn't like me."

"He thinks you're a spy."

"I know," I answer ruefully. _Art imitates life, right?_

A sudden, targeted question out of left field. "Are you?"

"No."

"I have a funny feeling you know who Klink is. Why haven't you told him about the operation?"

"I do know, sir. But I didn't tell him because—well, aside from the fact that I haven't met him in person, I don't want to do _anything_ to put you and your men in danger. And once he laughs me out of his office, I don't think it'll be a really good thing for all of you."

There's a knock on the Colonel's door. Kinch enters and takes a quick glance at me. "London on the line, sir. They want this week's report."

Colonel Hogan pauses as if to think, then says, "Tell them all going according to plan. And we may have a secure parcel to send over in the next day or two."

"Yes, sir." Kinch disappears.

"I don't want to go to London!" I protest.

"Who said anything about _you_ going to London?" Colonel Hogan asks.

"You said there might be a 'secure parcel'—that's _me_, under guard. I don't want to go to London. Unless it's London in the present day—and that's about 60 years after the Blitz—then I want to stay right here, or go back home!"

"Look, Annette, you may know a few things about—"

"My name's not Annette," I say suddenly.

_That stopped him._

"What?"

"My name's not Annette. It's Linda." Colonel Hogan gives me a bewildered look. "I was afraid to give my real name before. But it looks like nothing's going to happen to me under my real name that wouldn't be happening under my fake one. So... it's Linda. And..." I take a deep breath and then dare to look him in the eye. "Go on. I know I'm a problem. Do whatever you want with me. I'll handle it."

The Colonel's face changes. He isn't in love with me, but there's a new look in his eyes. Is that a tiny bit of acceptance? Or, maybe, a modicum of respect? Then I see another look that I always thought was just a bit of fantasy—he's concocting a scheme. Good heavens, it's a real look, and it's a _real_ glimmer in his eyes.

"Strangely enough, Linda, I believe your story. I'll explain _why_ another time. And you _are_ a problem—or at least, _having you here_ is. But I think I can use that to our advantage. Are you willing to try and help us?"

"Me?" I ask, astonished.

Colonel Hogan looks me straight in the eye. I'm totally mesmerized by his absolute control. "You."

My mouth opens and shuts but nothing comes out. Finally, I manage to croak: "Yes. Okay. Yes."

And finally, the Colonel smiles a real, genuine, heart-melting smile that reaches right up to his eyes. "Good."

"I'm glad to do whatever I can." _Oh, Lord, what have I gotten myself into?!_


	13. Hogan's Chapter 1

**Hogan's Interim Chapter 1**

Hogan turned away from the woman who claimed to be from the future. He believed her.

Heaven help them all, absurd as the story was, he believed her. Even as he stared at the image on the 'cell phone' screen—a technology that simply did not exist now—he still made allowance for the big red checkmark he put in the "doubt" column. Hogan did not stay alive in the middle of Nazi Germany through an impulsive lack of caution, no matter how much it seemed that way to others.

The image on the tiny screen showed a poorly framed, yellowed (with age? more than sixty years of age?!) photograph of he and his men by the barracks. To the best of Hogan's knowledge, it was a photograph that did not exist.

He turned back to her. "And you sent this to everyone in your… _unit_?" He let the word hang in the air significantly.

A smile twitched the woman's lips. "It's not a 'unit'. It's more of a social group who share a common interest in… well, _you_."

"Me?" he snapped, with a scowl. If this was a Gestapo trick to trap him, they'd certainly gotten more elaborate in their schemes. And were sending older, smarter women. He gave her odd hair and clothing another up-down look. Jeans? On a woman? Could anything be _less_ seductive than a woman wearing farmer's overalls? Though the snug way they fit… Hogan gave himself a mental shake. If this was a German scheme, it smacked of what Biedenbender had said about him—over-elaborate planning.

Again he went over with the woman, in detail, her story about how Hogan's, and his men's, exploits had been apparently fictionalized in the future and broadcast as a television serial—something like radio serials but with movie-like pictures. Having seen early television broadcast in both Germany and the eastern U.S. before the war, Hogan had no trouble believing that technology could develop. The idea that no one—and the woman emphasized this—_no one_ believed 'Hogan's Heroes' had actually been real struck Hogan. It was a relief to him to think they'd kept their security intact throughout the war; it meant they might survive to the end. But why had they been struck from history since?

With a shrug, the woman finished with, "…so sending that photo and message out to our group should have been nothing more than a game." She looked around his room, her expression taking on an edge of fear Hogan recognized as quite genuine. "Except I found several very authentic-looking documents, and that photo—" She gestured toward the cell phone screen Hogan still held. "–in the National Archives and realized perhaps there was a real, historical basis to the TV show." She looked at Hogan seriously. "I thought I might find your memoirs. I did not think I'd find _you_."

"But time travel," Hogan said, "to claim you're a time traveler… that's just science fiction."

"So is that gadget you're holding," she retorted.

Hogan had taken as immediate a dislike to her as she most clearly had to him, but now he found that position melting a touch. Once her fear diminished a stubborn obstinacy had appeared, which—though he always hated to admit it—was a trait he liked in women. He never much cared for the weak, compliant sort.

"All right," Hogan allowed, turning on his twinkling charm like turning on a light switch. It was a gift he had that disarmed men and made women into puddles… well, except Marya (shudder!), and Tiger… somehow those two were immune. With another mental shake, Hogan focused back on this woman—Jessica, if, in fact, that was her real name—code name "GS" for "Guildsister" (what guild?) and noted to his dismay that instead of melting for him, she seemed somewhat amused.

Showing him how to view more pictures contained in the device, Hogan noted familiar views of Washington, D.C., with unfamiliar elements in them.

"So these are the flying cars of the future?" he asked, pointing. He wanted that red one.

She grinned. "Sorry to tell you, flying cars really are science fiction. We were disappointed in that, too," she explained. "No, those are just ordinary cars." Still, other images were convincingly futuristic—especially the couple taken at the airport of, she said, 'jumbo jets'. Those made Hogan's heart jump. Not only jets, but enormous ones routinely carrying hundreds of passengers. He wanted to quiz her about their speed, structure, range… If he'd live long enough to fly one… Let's see, 2008, subtract the year he was born in 190… Um. Didn't look promising, never minding Hochstetter's lifespan goal for him.

Then he was back to the Archives pictures. A glint of gold showed in the corner of one of the pictures. "Is that the time travel device?" he asked. She nodded.

"All right," Hogan announced, straightening into his command pose, "I want the negatives from this camera. We're going to blow up these photos and get a better look at that device."

And she promptly disobeyed his direct order.

Women! Even in the future, they hadn't changed.

"Nope," she said coolly. "Not possible. There is no negative. Those images are stored electronically."

"You must have a way to get them off of there," he insisted.

"Sure," she agreed, "but not now."

"Then when?" he demanded.

With an irritating smile, she said, "In the year 2008." She dropped her smile, though not the hint of smugness that had accompanied it. "The technology to get the photos off of there just doesn't exist here in 1940… uh… forty… _five_?" She ended on a question mark.

"Forty-three," Hogan corrected. She seemed dismayed at the answer. "When does the war end?" Hogan asked sharply.

Again, she disobeyed him!

Shaking her head, she told him, "I won't tell you that."

"Why?" Precious few (Tiger and Marya, mostly) could resist that commanding tone of voice of his. Hmm… maybe they were Women From the Future, too. Actually, with Marya he could half-way believe that. It would explain a lot.

After some consideration, GSJessica answered, "If I tell you the war ends next month, then, maybe, you'll let your caution slip. But if I told you it lasted another ten years, you might lose your resolve. There is no good answer I can give you that wouldn't have you doing a countdown to the end, and that would be dangerous.

"Or…" She cut him off before he could protest. "…suppose I tell you something of the history—I mean the future—of the rest of the war, a battle or offensive, or the invasion… anything. Maybe you feed that information to London. What if I'm wrong? What if I remembered a date, or location wrong? Or even if it was right, what if what I told you changed _what must be_?"

"Hmph," Hogan sighed softly, turning away, he considered the implications of what she'd said. Taking a deep breath, he turned back. Not ordering, but rather almost imploring, he asked, "You say my life here was told in this serial program. At least tell me how it ends. Tell me if we survive."

She shook her head again. "I let you know some of this stuff from 2008 to convince you of my story, but it's far enough distant to not harm how you act—how you _must_ act—now. But in this case I couldn't tell you anyhow. I don't know. The show ended without a real ending. The story just stopped. It's just as well. No one should know his own future."

"All right," Hogan said, resigned. Would he want to know if his story ended in front of a Gestapo firing squad? Or would he rather believe he would outwit Hochstetter right up to the end?

"All right," Hogan repeated, in a more firm tone. Time to move along and deal with the problem at hand. "The Nazis have a time travel device they found, built, or took. Right?"

She scowled at him. "How do you figure that? It was in Washington. Maybe it was the Allies'."

Hogan spun the cell phone toward her. "There's a swastika on the golden device," he said, pointing to the small picture.

She squinted and tried the view at several distances, finally allowing, "Your eyes are better than mine. I'll take your word for it. I was more interested in the paper that was with it. I barely got a glimpse of the gadget before it shot me back here."

"So if the Nazis built it," Hogan continued, "they've developed a technology beyond anything we've dreamed they're working on. How does that fit into the future history you know?"

"It doesn't. At least no way that publicly known. Time travel is still impossible in 2008… well, except for me having done it, I guess. But I recall nothing about Nazi time travel experiments, not even as a hint or rumor," she said.

Hogan nodded, "It does seem a reach that they could develop something like that. Then they either found it—they've been hunting down mystical antiquities for years…"

"Like Indiana Jones and 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'," the woman put in irrelevantly, or so it seemed to Hogan. The words apparently meant something to her.

"…or they took it from someone or something," Hogan continued tersely. He didn't like being interrupted. "From another time traveler, maybe."

She looked up at him sharply. "That makes the most sense. Just because time travel is impossible now, and in my time, doesn't mean it's always impossible. Maybe someone from the really far distant future came back here exploring, and the Nazis caught him and took his time travel device. So what do we do about it? And," she stared hard at him, using her finger as a pointer, "how do we get me back where I belong?"

* * *

"…I will put London Intelligence onto this—see if they know anything about the Germans and time travel…" Hogan trailed off a moment. "They'll think I'm nuts," he added, drawing a tiny smile from the woman. Making an intuitive leap, he asked her, "Recurring theme in the fictional story?" She nodded, grinning more widely.

Continuing, Hogan said, "Because you landed here and not in, say Berlin, we'll have to assume there's a reason for that…"

"You mean that this is a focal point?" she inserted. Hogan nodded. She said, "That would make sense—as much sense as this can make. The fictional television story must have been—might _be_ a cover-up to hide the fact that all this— She gestured around Hogan's office. "—is, or was, real. The device is in a fairly well hidden file in the National Archives identified only by your serial number, 0876707…"

Hogan caught himself before she could see his reaction. 0876707 was not his serial number. It was a code number; a top, _top_ secret code number.

After he and Jessica had run through the correlations that suggested the Hammelburg/Stalag 13 area must be the focal point for the time travel device (both allowing for wishful thinking as part of their logic), Hogan concluded by asking, "So how do we find this thing?" He knew of no secret labs or installations in the area.

The woman said, "Well, in the television show, about this time, one of your men would run in saying, 'Colonel, a staff car just drove in full of German scientists and one of them has a mysterious golden device that looks important'."

Both Hogan and Jessica paused, looking hopefully toward the door for several seconds. Nothing happened.

"That would be convenient," Hogan said dryly, "but in real life, it's seldom that easy. Nope, we'll have to hunt for it the good, old fashioned way. I think, in the meantime, I'm going to send you on to London…"

"What!" she yelped. "No way. Fascinating as this all is, getting to see history for real and in action, and all that, I really want to get back home. And London is not the way. I need to be here, where the gadget is. Or where it will be," she allowed, her expression turning odd. "You know, this time traveler we're theorizing may not have arrived here-and-now yet."

That had occurred to Hogan. How long would this woman from the future have to stay here, being a continual security risk to Hogan and his operation. And if these others arrived… Cripes! Well, hopefully they'd all be cool, calm, and professional. At least this one hadn't burst into tears or anything like that… yet. She'd appeared on the verge of tears now and then, but had swallowed them back.

Feeling more than a little frazzled at this new predicament that dropped, almost literally, into his lap, Hogan ran his hand through his hair, then froze, noting the way the woman was both amused and intrigued by the idle gesture. How much of _him_ had that future actor put into the role?! It was both eerie, and a little flattering, to think of. He hoped they'd chosen a handsome actor to play him. Of course, they had, no other sort would work!

For now, he'd place the woman on the outside, with Olsen, maybe in the guise of being his mother. She spoke some German, hopefully enough so as not to blow Olsen's cover. Then they'd see where the pieces fell. Investigate. Hunt. Hopefully they'd get a break and have the device conveniently show up for them right here in Stalag 13, though that sort of luck was rare in real life.

He hoped this woman was quick with learning languages, and a good actress. Both skills would be needed before this episode was resolved.

_Cut and print it_, Hogan thought, glancing around for the non-existent cameras. Not quite a wrap yet, though.

* * *

NOTE: I have three sections received but not yet posted, so there is more to this story to come. More "time travelers" are still welcome to join in at any point. Advance the plot, or just plop yourself in.


	14. IronAmerica Part 3

**IronAmerica-3**

I am such an idiot. I am, without a doubt, the world's biggest idiot. I should never have opened my cell phone. I should never have looked at that text message. I should have stayed my usual paranoid, suspicious self, and convinced myself that the photo was a forgery.

And I should definitely learn to connect my brain to my mouth before I speak. If my dad ever gets this notebook (saying Colonel Hogan doesn't blackball the entire thing), I'd like him to teach me to be a bit more wary of military officers. I should also stop referring to Carter as the kid brother of the group. I want to go home, where I can watch the more familiar, sensible, version of the Heroes. I miss Bob Crane, Larry Hovis, Ivan Dixon, Robert Clary, and Richard Dawson.

Being in a small side tunnel under guard is not my idea of fun. On the upside, I now have all the time in the world to work on drawing people. Colonel Hogan, creepy man that he is, was nice enough to let me keep my backpack and the contents thereof. Where's my mid-term report though? So now I can write, draw, and stare into space to my hearts content. Oy vey.

Carter stopped by today on his way to build some sort of bomb, and I realize that he is definitely not the loveable child-like person Larry Hovis portrayed him as. Or loveable like I picture him. I want to go home. I hate this place.

_Mom, if you get this, I want to apologize for using your sewing scissors to open up a packet of icing. I know how touchy you get about us using your sewing scissors on something other than fabric or thread. _

_Devon, sorry for being such a needy, annoying sister. Heavens know how you put up with me all the time. Being stuck in World War Two does give one a new perspective on life, though. Good luck with getting your job at a game-design company. I know you want to do that after college._

_Dwyn, I don't have anything to apologize to you for. I do have a few things I want to say to you though. Good luck with college, be the valedictorian for me. Find a nice guy (no repeats of John), and name one of your kids after me. If you use my middle name, however, my ghost will haunt you for eternity._

_Dyan, same thing. Nothing to apologize for. But some advice- loosen up a little. Listen to some Celtic music once in a while, even though you hate it. Maybe become a kindergarten teacher. Wait! You already want to do that. Never mind…_

Ugh. I put down my pencil, and wonder how I became such a sap. I hate that, and people who get overly emotional, and I'm turning into one. What has the world come to? I look up, and see that it's Kinch's turn to be on guard. I give him a weak smile, which he doesn't return. I guess it's because of my insinuation that I could go to Klink or the Gestapo.

Maybe I could cause a tiny teensy weensy little temporal paradox, and tell him about Martin Luther King Jr. It'd do him some good to know that racism gets toned down a little, even if it doesn't go away completely. Ah, heck, I'm doing it again. Convincing myself that I know everything (even though Pe... err, Newkirk, _was_ rigging the deck). Figures. Now I can't think of the guy I am possibly in love with by his first name. It seems like a privilege I don't deserve.

Oh good God, I'm becoming broody. That in itself is frightening. Though possibly not as frightening as my desire to see the three twerps again. I find it hard to believe that I could find myself missing Brandon, Tyler, and urgh, Nathan. My pencil needs to be sharpened again. Pity I didn't bring my clicky pencils with me.

"Hey, Mr. Kinchloe?" He looks up, staring at me with those slightly creepy brown eyes. "Um, could I have a pencil sharpener please?" He takes my pencil and sharpens it for me, and I thank him again. Kinch seems like a nice guy, and he really should have an inferiority complex. It seems that no one's ever been polite to him. Hogan and white company are all right to him, but not overly polite, like mom taught me.

I open my notebook to a page I've been working on for a while. I look at Kinch again, and than back at my paper. I wonder if I showed it to him, if he'd be offended. After all, a teenage girl drawing pictures of guys in tights… Well yeah. Not exactly normal. Especially for this day and age. But there is a distinct lack of African-American superheroes, and I haven't even read that many comics. I really need to straighten my priorities out.

Onto my problem of Colonel Hogan. How do I convince him of anything? None of my fellow writers know that I'm here, I think, and I don't want to drag anyone down with me. If anyone else did arrive. Though the clerk did make it seem like the others, if there were any, were disappearing left, right and center. But I have got to get out of these tunnels. They aren't cramped, like the tunnels at Tour-Ed mine, but they still induce feelings of claustrophobia. Tunnels and me are like gasoline and a lit match. I'm surprised I haven't gone nuts yet… Oh wait. I AM! I'm in _Hogan's Heroes_, with no way out.

Spring break must be over by now, unless my personal timeline froze when I left. That's a theory to explore, since Mugi-chan hasn't shown up yet. Or maybe the gold thingy only affects HH writers? Possibly. I wonder what my dad is thinking, if my PTL hasn't frozen? Maybe he's getting the USMC to look for me. He is a lieutenant-colonel, but he's not important for anyone to think that terrorists have come after me for revenge. Okay, now that that is in writing, it looks really stupid.

"Mr. Kinchloe, can I ask you a hypothetical question?" Kinch looks at me, slightly bored. No one wants to guard the psychotic teen, and he got stuck with the job. "Mr. Kinchloe, if you knew that segregation was going to end in, oh say, the next, umm, twenty to thirty years, what would you do?"

Kinch looks at me, and I can imagine the wheels turning in his head. "It would depend-" he started slowly. I wait, wondering what he's going to say. "-why should I care? I had to go all the way to Tuskegee just so I could fight for my country. Does that make any sense?" Uh-oh. I think I accidentally touched a nerve.

"Mr. Kinchloe, this is all hypothetical you understand, I'm not going to say anything is definite. I'm just saying that yes, segregation, and a large chunk of racism will disappear. Now, racism won't disappear entirely, unfortunately, but it will become just a tad more… Psychological, rather than physical." Now he's looking at me as though I'm pulling a joke on him. Sigh, Doesn't anyone trust me? Um. Oh yeah! The Gestapo and/or Klink thing. Hmm. Cause a paradox or not. Choices, choices… On second thought, I won't. I mean, after reading "Weapons of Choice" a few dozen times, I just get a headache trying to think things, like causing paradoxes, through. "Um, Sergeant Kinchloe? I just weighed a ton of possibilities, and I'm gonna go with something a bit safer." He looks at me strangely, and I feel like kicking myself. To repeat myself, yes I am the world's biggest idiot.

"Okay, here goes. I have had some personal experience with the racism thing. Not like you must have though. But people in my school, they see me as the source of bets, or someone to help them with their homework." He still looks skeptical. "I only have four friends, and two of them are kinda social outcasts as well. One of my friends, Richelle, she likes to hunt, and she and Mr. Mossgrove go hunting together. Brooke, or as I like to call her, Mugi-chan, well, she's got a lot of other friends. She's also a writer, but she doesn't know about _Hogan's Heroes_, apart from what I've told her. I also have classes with at least four other African-Americans, three Asian-Americans, and two kids from Saudi-Arabia. As near as I can remember."

Kinch looks at me, and I see something in his eyes I've never seen before. On the show, or here, in "Real Life". He looks like he's regained something. That, or he thinks I'm yanking his chain. Looking in his eyes, it looks as if he's found something that he's been missing for a long time. Probably not, but I'm not a serious pessimist, so I'll hold out hope.

Uh-oh. While making Kinch feel good about his possible future, with a small bit of remaining racism was a good thing I can't help but think that I've done something terrible. I immediately make him swear himself to secrecy. Hopefully, he never tells. I won't hold my breath though. I'm not that optimistic though. I'm jinxed when it comes to things like this.

Kinch stands up from his stool, and walks over to where I'm sitting. He sits down across from me, and I feel slightly nervous. He smiles at me, and I see a bit of Ivan Dixon there, which makes me feel better. "Well, it certainly is food for thought, miss." I blush. Oh God, I can't believe it. I'm blushing like a love-struck teenager. Oh, I am one, just with Newkirk.

"Mr. Kinchloe, call me Dasha. Miss makes me feel way, way too old." Oh man, not again! Kinch looks like he's had another heart-attack. Go figure. White girls, or guys, don't ask anyone outside of their race to call them by their first name. In this time period at least.

To compound this problem, Colonel Hogan has appeared. And he's not looking like the loveable teddy bear Hogan from the TV show. My blood instantly freezes, and Kinch is looking slightly guilty as well. I now have another person to apologize to at a later date. Joyfulness.

"Kinch, your shift is over. It's mine now." Kinch takes the hint, and leaves. Hogan turns his gaze onto me, and I hope that he isn't going to shoot me. I wouldn't put it past this version of him. I miss Bob Crane.

Hogan looks at me, and I wonder what he's thinking. I wish I could remember the name of my great-uncle Whitis cause I really need to convince him that I am indeed an ally. Maybe Aunt Winnie? No, Australia, and she's not that old. Still great-uncle Whitis was in the Allied military, as a Seabee, and he might help vouch for me. Not likely, seeing as technically I don't exist yet.

"Miss, while I appreciate your wish to make all my men at ease, I do not appreciate that you threatened to turn us in to Klink, or the Gestapo." Yup, here it comes. "Regardless of your motives, if you put any of my men, or this operation at risk, I will not hesitate to kill you. And no one will ever find your body." Yup, I'm dead.

"Sir, may I speak frankly?" I've stood up, and am now standing at a passable imitation of parade ground attention. He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, and I see that as my cue to continue. "Sir, I realize that I may have put your operation at risk. I had no intention of doing so, however. My original intent was to find a way home as fast as possible, and leave all of this… here. I never wanted any of this to be more than fiction. I understand fiction, but not people. My parents have tried to teach me to keep my mouth shut at the appropriate times, but I have never learned to do so. If I were to go anywhere near the Gestapo, or Hochstetter, it would be because I was dead. I have studied this time period extensively, to try and make things that I write make sense, and I have tried to avoid using the Gestapo. Sir, they terrify me. If you ever get the chance, go to Auschwitz, or Dachau, or Birkenau. I apologize for any harm I may have caused your operation, and were I in the military, I would ask that you discharge me, as fast as possible. I am not, however, so I'll give you my word of honor, as the daughter of a Marine Corp officer, that I will not knowingly or willingly do anything to put you and your men at risk."

I think I've finally gotten through to the human or military part of Hogan. He produces a key from his pocket, and I finally am released from the shackles. Took long enough. Oops, trying to stay on Hogan's good side. "Well, ma'am, for the moment, you're free to leave the tunnels. But if you try anything…" I nod, and draw my finger across my throat. I understand perfectly.

* * *

I relish in the fact that I am now out of the tunnels. While I don't often spend much time outside anyways, I do like to be able to see the sky. Apart from still having a guard, whose objective is to keep me from going anywhere near Klink's office, I'm enjoying myself.

Someone comes up behind me, and taps my shoulder. I immediately turn around, socking the offender. I take a moment to ask myself why I asked Devon to show me Tae-Kwon-Doe moves. I look at the man I socked, and turn a lovely shade of crimson. Why is it that I always have bad luck with men? I've just punched Peter Newkirk in the stomach, and he's starting to look a little red.

"Oh my god! Are you okay? I am so sorry, Peter!" Oh lord, I've done it again. I'm babbling. He nods, looking pained, and keeps hold of his stomach. Am I really strong enough to cause damage? I really should stop hitting people. My escort is starting to look a little jumpy, and I have to wonder if I'm cursed. I probably already have a tunnel floor with my name on it already.

Newkirk nods, still doubled over. I need to do something about my reflexes. I touch him on the shoulder, and when he looks up, I tell him I'm sorry. He nods, and walks away, limping slightly. I try to follow him, but someone ELSE comes up to me. It looks like an unnamed extra. "Colonel Hogan wants to see you." Uh-oh. What have I done now?


	15. Tuttle4077 Part 3

**Tuttle4077-3**

**Precarious Situation**

I'm not really sure what I was expecting. I can tell you one thing though, I sure as heck didn't expect Kinch to grab me by the arm and pull me off the chair like a rag doll. And I certainly didn't expect to be slammed into the dirt wall behind me. I thought Kinch was the reasonable one.

"Who are you and what were you doing?" Kinch demanded in a strangely calm voice. I couldn't think of a single intelligent thing to say. Everything was just gibberish. What I really wanted to do was beg for mercy and apologize up and down. I knew I shouldn't have touched his stupid radio!

"Kinch? Kinch, what's going on?" Another voice called from above. Newkirk! Oh thank goodness! He'd help me.

I suddenly recalled an episode in season six when Newkirk had straight up threatened to kill Metzler because he knew about the operation. What on earth would he do to me- someone who obviously knew enough about their operation to get into their tunnel and sabotage their radio? I knew I should've left it alone! Curiosity was definitely going to kill the cat today.

"Found her trying to destroy the radio," Kinch explained. "Here, hold her while I go check on it."

"Right." Kinch released me and I debated running for it, but the sound of a gun cocking made me reconsider. Newkirk wasn't any more gentle than Kinch as he grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back. "Everything all right, Kinch?"

I heard Kinch swear under his breath and winced. Oh boy, just great. I was going to get killed by my favourite TV characters. Or just seriously wounded. Then maybe I would be shipped off to the 4077th. And then when this whole mess was over, I'd vacation in Hawaii and get involved in a Five-O case.

I was losing it. Were these guys even real? I mean, this whole thing could've been a insane dream.

Nope. The pain in my arm told me I was awake.

"I don't know how she did it, but it's going to take hours to fix it."

"What?!" I cried in astonishment. How in the heck had I done that? I had barely touched the stupid thing! I suddenly recalled the unfortunate incident with my dad's ham radio. I wasn't even allowed to set foot in the garage anymore. Of course. If anyone could destroy Kinch's radio, it would be me.

Newkirk growled and pushed me harder into the wall. "Hey, watch it or you'll break my glasses!" I cried, trying to pull my face away. Of all the things to say! Honestly, did it matter if I was blind or not at a moment like this? Where were all my smart-alecky remarks when I needed them?

"I don't even think we need to bother the colonel with her," Newkirk remarked and I could feel his gun against the back of my neck. Holy Toledo! Oh no, oh no, oh no!! This couldn't happen to me!

I managed to look over my shoulder at Kinch. He was standing there, solemnly, looking me up and down. What was he thinking? I couldn't tell. Kinch had always been a hard character for me to analyze. "Better take her to the colonel. He'll want to know how she found out about us."

"Right then," Newkirk grumbled. Roughly, he whirled me around and before I knew it, I was slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Hey!"

"Quiet," Newkirk ordered as he started climbing up the ladder. Well, this was humiliating. "Here, take this," Newkirk said to someone up top. I was grabbed and set upright on my feet.

I couldn't believe it. I was in barracks two! There was the table and the stove and the coffee pot! And there, in the back of the room was the door leading to Colonel Hogan's office! Holy heck, I was really there!

"Wait here," Newkirk ordered, tossing his gun to an extra- and had I been in MASH, I would've recognized him as Goldman- who covered me with it. Newkirk stepped towards the office and opened the door a crack and peeked in. "Colonel?" My heart smacked against my chest. He was actually talking to Colonel Hogan! Hogan was in that room, right there! "We caught someone in the tunnel… Right." Newkirk opened the door wider and nodded to Goldman, who led me, none too gently, into the office.

My breath caught in my throat. Colonel Hogan was sitting at his desk, flanked by LeBeau and Carter. All three turned to look at me and I squirmed at their attention. I wanted desperately to just crawl into the wood-work and disappear.

They all looked a little surprised. Hogan, of course, was the first to recover. His face didn't show any emotion, but his eyes- oh, what things those eyes said. It was fascinating to watch. I could practically see the wheels in his head turning as he analyzed me and the situation. "Another one?" he finally said. Another one?

Newkirk shook his head. "Don't think so, guv'. We caught her in the tunnels trying to sabotage the radio. Kinch says she banged it up good."

I paled. Oh great. When it came to his men and his operation, Hogan lived up to his codename- Papa Bear. Or was that a "Mama Bear" I was thinking of? Either way, it didn't matter. The point was, he'd do anything to protect it. Even kill an innocent girl solely on suspicion. I wanted to explain myself, but found words failed me. I was scared stiff. Heck, up to this point, I had never even seen a gun up close before and now I had at least one aimed directly at me.

Hogan arched an eyebrow. Then, suddenly, he stood and smacked his hand down on the desk. I involuntarily took a step back, only to be held firmly by Newkirk. Hogan wasn't supposed to lose his cool so easily. But something was bugging him.

"Oh boy, I stepped right into it, didn't I?" he muttered. "I believed her too. It was too crazy not to believe." Turning a dangerous eye to me, he sized me up. "Tell me, how did you get here?"

"Uh…" Uh? I wanted to take myself and smack me upside the head. I needed to say something! Preferably something intelligent.

"Le colonel asked you a question," LeBeau said darkly. I looked at him, wide-eyed. LeBeau that short, fierce Frenchman had a scowl that made you believe he could tear you apart if he wanted. What was happening? These guys were more vicious than they had ever been on the show. Of course, I wasn't in the TV show. Though I wasn't quite sure yet- for the whole thing seemed so impossible that I couldn't think of a reasonable explanation- I had a feeling that somehow, some way ended up in some sort of alternate reality where these guys had actually existed.

"I don't know how I got here," I started slowly, my voice trembling. Then, the flood gates opened and the babbling brook was in full force. "I was in Washington and I went to the National Archives because I was told there was a box that had information about you guys and I was curious because who wouldn't be curious and I opened the box and didn't find anything so I was going to put it back and tripped and everything spilled out and when I went to put everything back in I suddenly found myself in your tunnels and got lost and then found the radio and Mama Bear was calling and Kinch wasn't around so I was going to answer it but then Kinch did come down and scared me and- and- and-" I was practically hyperventilating. I caught myself and took a deep breath, but I was just as frantic as before when I continued. "I'm sorry, Colonel Hogan, I'm sorry!! I didn't mean to hurt the radio!! Honestly, cross my heart and hope to die!" I quickly crossed my heart and held up two fingers- cub scout's honor!

If anything, Hogan just looked annoyed with my explanation. I didn't blame him. I was annoyed at myself. "National Archives, huh? I've heard that before. Carter," he nodded towards me, "search her."

My cheeks started burning as Carter patted me down. I wanted to crawl under a rock and die of embarrassment. I had never been searched before- ever! Even with all the flying I did- albeit, I usually only flew between two provinces. My friend once said I looked too dumb to be a terrorist, but I preferred to think I looked too innocent. I buried my face in my hands as Carter continued his search. "Kill me now," I muttered. "NO!! Don't actually!"

"She's clean, Colonel," Carter reported, moving back to the desk.

"All right. So you say you have no idea how you got here. Doesn't explain why you were sabotaging our radio?"

I let out a frustrated sigh. "I wasn't sabotaging it! I just have horrible luck with electronics! Honestly! I'm really, really, _really _sorry!" Hogan looked at me sceptically.

"What do you think, sir?" Carter asked. I gave him a pathetic look. If anyone would take pity on me, it was Carter. He had to! He was my favorite! But no such luck. Carter was busy listening to Colonel Hogan.

The colonel crossed his arms and grabbed his elbows. His jaw set and that familiar look came on his face- he was thinking. "Something's off here. It's possible- and this is a big maybe- that she's telling the truth." To him, a big maybe indeed, judging by the look he gave me as he said it.

"And if she is not?" LeBeau asked.

"Then we may be looking at a big breach in security somewhere."

"You think she's working with the other one?" Newkirk asked from behind me.

Hogan narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly. "Not sure yet. Get her in here, LeBeau. We've got to figure this out."

I bit my lip and watched LeBeau pass me and head out into the common room. What were they talking about? Another one? My mind raced through everything that had happened- or everything I thought had happened. GSJessica's message, National Archives, a box with old papers and such in it. Something in that box could've sent me back here. And if I had looked at the box, then someone else who had read the message might have too. Was "the other one" another Hogan's Heroes fan who had also found herself in my precarious situation? That was crazy. I mean, how many people would flock to Washington just to look at a dumb old box?


	16. Jake Duncan

_A new "time traveler" arrives to the story!_

**Jake Duncan-1**

**WTF**

_What the heck?!_

I actually said the words out loud as I suddenly found myself in total pitch-blackness. There hadn't been a cloud in the sky when I'd first come into the Archives, and besides, T-storms don't knock out the power in big cities like DC; just little podunk towns in the middle of nowhere, like the one I live near.

Not only was I in the dark, but, where I had been sitting in a chair a moment ago looking through the contents of box 0876707, I was now suddenly sitting on the floor--a rough, dirt-and-rock floor.

Slowly, my eyes adjusted, and I could see a dim light in the distance; I started moving toward it. As I got closer, I could hear a voice, one I could have sworn I'd heard before, but I couldn't place it. Then the voice was forgotten as the words registered: "PAPA BEAR calling GOLDILOCKS. Come in GOLDILOCKS."

Oh. That explained it. I must have fallen asleep over the box and was now dreaming. The voice was Kinch's; the dim light would be the crude, home-made fat-lamps they used to illuminate the tunnel, surroundings I had seen many times before. I grinned to myself, expecting to enjoy this dream to the fullest.

What I was _not_ expecting was the reaction of the tall, lanky man in a worn RAF uniform when he lit a lamp closer to my location: He jumped in startlement and blurted the Savior's name in vain. Startled myself by his sudden appeearance, I uttered a little shriek of my own. We stared at each other for a second, during which I recognized Peter Newkirk. Then he turned and called over his shoulder, "'Ey, Kinch, we got us another one."

"You gotta be kiddin' me!" Kinch complained. "Man, the Colonel's gonna have a fit!"

Huh? What portion of my subconscious had _this_ little scenario come from?

Then there was a rattling sound from the directcion of what must be the radio room, and yet another familiar voice called, "Roll call!"

I didn't notice the makeshift wardrobe against the wall until Newkirk moved the tattered blanket that covered it. From the mass of German uniforms hidden there, he withdrew a pair of handcuffs. Very unceremoniously, he grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to my feet; before I could react, he'd slapped the cuff on my wrist, and fastened the other end to one of the tunnel supports. "Don't go tuggin' on that, or y' might cause a cave-in," he warned me. "An' keep quiet." With that, he was gone.

What the heck…?


	17. GSJessica Part 3

**GSJessica-3**

Olsen was great. I took an instant liking to him that never diminished. He differed from the others, whose characters delved into the dark and serious much more deeply than their television counterparts, Olsen never displayed anything but a bright, light-hearted cheerfulness. Oh, that's not to say he wasn't a serious professional. He'd do his job—including any deadly dirty work—without a twitch, but never once was he broody or scary. I never felt threatened by him.

He was interesting, too, because in many ways he had the most dangerous role in the organization, being without that POW cover. Olsen did live in camp sometimes, when covering for an escape, or helping out with an assignment. Occasionally he spent some time in Stalag 13 to cover his tracks when things got too hot on the outside. And sometimes I think he stayed in camp just for the company of his own people. Maybe that was to remind himself who he really was, instead of the who he had to live. Yet through it all Olson remained unfailingly chipper. Perhaps he was just been completely deluded and insane. If so, it worked for him.

I had to give huge credit to Hogan, who is as big a control freak as I am, that he never questioned what Olsen did, nor how he did it, and gave him minimal orders. Just as well. If Olsen hadn't been such a upbeat sort he'd have been downright nefarious. He was as close to Humphrey Bogart in _Casablanca_ as I've ever met… nope, wrong analogy. Olsen was more like Indiana Jones but without that hint of world-weariness. That boy! My goodness. I had always wondered how he managed in the middle of Germany, like that. But manage he did, and at a tidy profit. I never figured out everything he was into, but the black market was just the tip of it.

Olsen was a typical mongrel all-American boy with a Norwegian father and a German mother and no one knew how long growing up in Europe, if in fact he did. Somehow he didn't really try to pass as a native German, yet managed to project an aura about him that caused no one—not even the Gestapo agents he routinely spent time with—to question who he was or why he was there. Frankly, I'm not sure if he was really in the U.S. Army or if Hogan had somehow acquired him here and signed him up for the operation.

But there was a dark side and history to Olsen, too, which I never did find out the details of. I just knew that while he could happily spend an evening drinking and chumming with the local Gestapo agents—and not seem to be faking the chumminess—he never lost an absolute ice-cold hatred of Nazism. He was a conundrum, that boy was.

I found myself wishing his role in the television show had been bigger. Much bigger. Maybe a spin-off series.

So, after Hogan decided I should be sent "out" with Olsen, we went down into the tunnels.

I hate the tunnels. I hate the tunnels. I hate the tunnels.

The radio room and nearby areas weren't so bad, actually, for claustrophobia. Good size and good ventilation. It was just that I could still _feel_ that thirty-odd feet of dirt over my head pressing down. The tunnel entrance arrangement was a bit different than I'd expected. I guess we never had a tracking shot following someone down through the bunk all the way into the radio room. The ladder down from the barracks led to a sort of antechamber. From there came another descent further underground and angling back toward Barracks Three. The radio room was partially under the back side of Barracks Two and the space between that barracks and Barracks Three. And the main tunnels were deep underground. Much deeper than the show portrayed.

I steadied myself and didn't cause a fuss about being down there. I can do that if I have to, and I knew I had to. I saw a twitch of humor from Hogan over my discomfort. And Carter—dear fellow!—offered steadying words of comfort. I didn't say I hid my discomfort, only controlled it.

Then I got lessons in how to be a woman.

From Newkirk.

Cripes.

Okay… Let's be straight about this: Newkirk's a manly man. No doubt about that. I managed to suppress every smart-mouthed slashy comment that came to mind as he taught me how to curl my hair into a proper 1943 style, and apply makeup, and dress like a proper woman, but a dozen and one comments did leap to mind.

Honestly, I don't embarrass easily, but when Newkirk had to show me how to put on a garter and fasten the nylon—I mean silk—stockings to them, I did blush. I drew the line at a girdle. Not. Gonna. Happen.

End result: I was dressed for Halloween. Or 1943. Whichever came first. At least they didn't try to make me look like some frumpy hausfrau. It was quite a spiffy suit, tailored on the spot to fit me very neatly. I rather hoped I'd be able to take it back to 2008 with me. The styles then to now were quite similar.

I did glare most sincerely at Hogan when he told me I'd be playing the role of Olsen's mother. Indeed. Okay, so the math on that relationship may work, but I don't look my age! Apparently Newkirk agreed for he made me up more as a respectable, but still attractive, well-dressed woman who happened to have a grown son. Once properly and attractively dressed (as these men saw 'proper' and 'attractive'), I did get some encouraging up and down looks and a hint of a wolf whistle from somewhere in the tunnel shadows. Better.

The paperwork, and their production of it without computers or scanners, was remarkable. In a matter of hours I had everything I needed to be a German woman in 1943 (except the knowledge of how to _be_ a German woman in 1943). I used my grandmother's name on the identification papers. Hogan didn't quibble; agreed I should have a name I'd remember easily, not something like 'Bertha Hogginfossil'. My German immersion lessons had already started, with instructions and descriptions given to me in German with translations only as needed to be sure I understood. This was a difference from the television show I'd most expected, yet it still struck me. Yes, 'Hogan's Heroes' did speak German with each other—at least down in the tunnels where they wouldn't be overheard by Klink or his ferrets (yes, Klink had some). And also 'yes', Carter's German was less than awe-inspiring. He knew the words, mostly, just put them together in strange orders. Actually, it probably worked for him; made him sound eccentric rather than outright foreign.

* * *

…so out the tunnel tree stump (!) we prepared to go. Those occasional 'squee' moments did still hit me now and then.

Then, up into the wide and terrifying world beyond of darkness, gloom, and Gestapo agents lurking in every shadow ready to torture me to death. Sergeant Kinchloe carefully raised the periscope to check the timing of guards and lights while Olsen lounged easily against the ladder. He grinned at me, showing absolutely no fear. I hitched my purse on my shoulder so it wouldn't slip…

Wait a minute.

Something wasn't quite right with all this, the nagging thought kept occurring to me.

Colonel Hogan—studying me intensely—for all he seemed so different from Bob Crane's portrayal, was still exactly and precisely the _same_ as he'd been, _would be_, portrayed. We did see the dark, focused, and dangerous Hogan in the TV show, too, just not as often as we saw the lighter, funny guy. It came as a revelation to me: The Hogan I knew, had watched, and studied was exactly the same as this real man before me. Only the proportions of the traits that made him up were different.

At that moment I stopped fearing him (mostly), stopped disliking him (well, some—we both need to be in charge so will always clash), and most importantly stopped doubting what I thought he'd do or plan.

You see, I _knew_ Hogan. And Hogan _always_ had a plan.

Hogan was letting me go up that ladder with my purse still full of 21st century stuff. This was not an accident. I'd even handed Kinchloe my wallet when he gave me the proper German identification papers. Hogan said, "No, keep your things with you. They wouldn't be safe here." That odd bit of illogic bothered me then and kept gnawing at me now.

Now, as Kinchloe timed lights and guards, I turned back to Colonel Hogan, took in the look in his eyes, and bluntly asked, "So, Colonel, just how obvious do you want me to be in dropping my trail of 21st century breadcrumbs?"

Hogan grinned. And twinkled. He knew I was onto him and it actually pleased him. There was the Hogan I knew.

Yes, indeedy. There he was, the Hogan I knew and admired… sending me out to be bait. The bastard.

* * *

As I climbed the ladder behind Olsen, I considered the logic. Hogan figured if the Nazis found one time traveler, they'd be alert for others. I would drop hints that would lead them to me, which in turn would lead Hogan, Olsen, and the others to the _them_—and the golden time travel device.

At this point I was more annoyed than scared. But the idea was sound so I'd do my best with it.

Up to a new and terrifying adventure I climbed.

Like most things that are, or seem, frightening, it's the unknowns and the imagination that make everything worse than it is. That's how it was with my entry into World War II Nazi Germany.

As I went up the ladder my greatest concern was to not snag those silk stockings on the rough wooden rungs. Then climbing out of the tree stump, an awkward process in a tight skirt. The guards and lights fell into a secondary position of concern mainly because Hogan and his men had things so well coordinated that the guards and searchlight really couldn't be a major concern.

The tree stump lid dropped into place, fitting more seamlessly than the one on the TV show, our tracks blended into dozens of others about. Olsen crouched with me, taking in the surroundings, then tugged my arm, leading me off into the woods on a well-worn trail. I did take one, long look at Stalag 13. It did not look like a fun place to be.

Bavaria in February is mild—at least by my northern U.S. standards—so it wasn't too cold. The darkness of the woods also was less of a problem than I'd expected. The great searchlights from the camp threw up quite a lot of illumination and sky glow gave at least sharp, young eyes like Olsen's plenty to see by, especially on familiar paths. I let him guide me and just tried not to stumble in the unfamiliar shoes.

The forest surrounding Stalag 13 was much smaller than I'd expected. It mostly provided a visual barrier around the camp, blocking both the camp from view, and the prisoners from seeing the area around them. We quickly came out of the woods to Olsen's not-very-well-hidden car.

No scrawny Volkswagon for my boy! I couldn't stop a huge grin when I saw that the American spy in the middle of Nazi Germany drove a Ford.

Chutzpa, that was Olsen through and through.

Then we drove into Hammelburg.

Simple as that.

It had all the tension, excitement, and drama of driving into Waukesha, Wisconsin.

By the time we arrived at Olsen's house the tension had drained out of me. This was all more like being a tourist, once it came to it, than either a lost time traveler or a spy. Hammelburg was a nice town. There weren't swastikas festooned everywhere (though I did spot some, which made my stomach clench). People weren't marching about like brainwashed Nazi androids heil Hitlering each other endlessly. It was a charming, quaint, European town untouched by the 'modern' world. All it lacked was guidebooks and t-shirt shops. Everything looked relatively normal… with cool, old cars as a bonus.

Olsen's house was quite nice. It was what I'd call a row house or townhouse, with two stories. I'd expected either a non-descript small apartment for him, or some run-down hideout cottage in the woods. This house was in the more upper-middle-class area, yet not so 'upper' as to create undue attention.

Inside the décor was warm and comfortable. I reached out to touch the lace doily on the arm of the sofa and that's when the tears came.

I'd misted up when Hogan said he meant to send me to London. Historically, I wouldn't have minded seeing London now. But for the purposes of returning home, being either here in Hammelburg, or in Washington, D.C., seemed my best bets. Mentally transporting myself to the States had led me to think… I could go home. I could see my home as it was now, in the 40s. The old home farm… my parents as teenagers... my grandparents… They were alive now…

Seeing those lace doilies, so like those I remembered from my grandmother's house when I was little…

Olsen seemed to understand, wrapping his arms around me. Such a nice, young fellow, he was.

* * *

When I woke in the morning there was a disconnected moment of thinking I was in a quaint bed-and-breakfast on vacation somewhere. The bedroom was warm and comfortable with nothing that leapt out as being out of another time. Then I woke up a bit more and felt queasy. What's the time travel equivalent of jet lag? How many time zones did this trip count as?

Steeling myself, I made my way downstairs. Olsen's door, open a crack, let me see he still slept. It was early, not more than 6 a.m., but I was done sleeping and yearning for coffee. I wasn't optimistic about coffee, however, being unhappily aware of German wartime rationing and shortages. Quietly, I probed into the kitchen cabinets. Bless Olsen and his black marketeering soul! Coffee. The real stuff. And plenty of everything else. How different Olsen's life was from that rough existence in Stalag 13.

No problems with the kitchen. It was an extremely modern one, for now, and very like those old-fashioned kitchens I remembered from childhood. Gas range, lit with a match. Coffee pot (no Mr. Coffee's here!). All good.

"That smells good," I heard behind me as I poured the first beautiful cup. I turned, handing it to Olsen, pouring myself another. Frankly, boiled coffee tastes and smells better than filtered. We've lost some things for the sake of convenience. I should mention, Olsen spoke to me in German. We spoke nothing else, except for a few necessary translations. It gave me a headache at first, having to concentrate so hard on _thinking_ in a language other than English, but it was critical and I never wavered nor slacked off.

After my first cup, I cooked breakfast. I was the 'mother' of our little household, after all. I considered how my grandmother used to cook and made a meal more like that than what I would normally make. Cheese, bread, and sausage accompanied the eggs. Olsen complimented both the cooking and the food choices. We read the newspaper together. Listened to the radio. Talked about and described every single item in the house and on the street outside, over and over. That was the day. And the next day. And the next.

By the time we went out into the town together I was able to handle most casual conversations. We went to shops and movies. Ate in local restaurants. Bought me some more clothes. I learned to blend in and function until I felt secure out on my own.

A week. Two weeks. Three.

Sometimes Olsen went out by himself. Some trips were on his own business, some, I think, on Hogan's business. He only told me what was necessary about these expeditions. I fretted like a mother over her baby boy in danger.

* * *

"It's a go," Olsen announced, returning home by the back door one night about midnight.

"Huh?" I answered brilliantly. He said it in English and it took me a moment to shift gears and translate the words.

Olsen grinned. "Operation Breadcrumbs. I reported in on your progress and Papa Bear gave it a go ahead."

Whoa. Wow. Okay.

Make a nest. Mold a world. Adapt it. Adapt to it. Make it into a home. Think it's permanent. Poof! I felt that thing all displaced, lost, and homeless people felt.

No one else from my time had shown up. I hadn't really expected they would. After all, who'd be dumb enough to follow up on a message like that one I sent? Nope. I was alone here and now and getting home would take my own efforts, and risk. No rescues coming.

"Okay," I said to Olsen. "I know how to start."

* * *

On one of our casual outings in Hammelburg, we enjoyed the delightfully warm spring day at a sidewalk café. Olsen had chosen it particularly as one frequented by the Gestapo agents headquartered nearby. He cheerfully greeted some of them by name, introducing me as his mother. I smiled at them politely as they tipped their hats to me. We chose a table nearby, ate and drank, taking our casual time about it, chatting quietly. Innocently.

Olsen timed our meal so we stood up to leave when the Gestapo agents still had about half a beer each yet to go. He pulled out some money to pay, queried if I had any change to leave for a tip. I fidgeted and fussed with my pocketbook, leaving a few coins on the table. As we left the café, I passed another empty table and—certain I was unobserved—added a coin to the money left there. It was a U.S. quarter, dated 1996.

Down the street we ambled, me taking my "son's" arm. Past Gestapo headquarters where, in the gutter discretely landed a shiny glint of copper. I didn't look down, but from the corner of my eye I saw it landed with that icon of freedom—Abraham Lincoln—face up. Date on the penny: 2004.

Operation Breadcrumbs had begun. The trail led near—but not _too_ _near_— that mysterious time traveler: me.

* * *

…and there, entering the night club, full of fake joviality was none other than Kommandant Wilhelm Klink (!).

I stared. I could not help myself.

The voice. The laugh. The hands clapped together eagerly as he surveyed the room for female quarry. It was all so… so… _Klink_.

Then our eyes met. I smiled. He smiled back.

An honesty moment here… I was amused by the very Klink-ness of him and he caught me mid-chuckle. He didn't know that. Klink just saw a woman smiling at him from across the room and bee-lined toward me.

Olsen, returning to the table with our drinks, spotted Klink heading my way and made an abrupt right turn in his trajectory. He offered my drink to a fetching young lady (no doubt what he'd prefer from the evening, rather than a night out with 'his mother'), struck up a conversation and settled in across the room, keeping one eye on me.

Klink arrived to my table, clicked his heels and gave a half-bow. My smile broadened—for the wrong reasons, of course. Nevertheless, I held up my hand as I'd seen ladies in movies like _Titanic_ do. Taking my hand in his, Klink bent over it, kissing my hand with his lips brushing against it every so slightly. Honest to God, shivers ran up my spine! The touch was warm, gentle, gracious. Shivers, I tell you!

Wilhelm Klink was—and I kid you not—a perfect gentleman of the classic sort, ready to back off at once when he spotted my wedding ring. Then he offered genuine condolences when I sadly (not faked) offered my cover story that my husband was "gone" (in the not-born-yet sense of the word). Klink swept himself into the seat across from me, ready to console the widow to the best of his abilities with a wolfishness tempered by authentically good manners.

Okay. I'm just gonna say it and get it out of the way. I liked Klink. I liked him at once and liked him steadily more the longer I spent with him.

Like Hogan, the Klink I met here in real life was the same as the one portrayed in the television show, but, again, with different proportions applied to his character traits. Yes, Klink was a bit of a braggart, though to be fair he had some incredible stories to tell of the First World War. And, yes, he could be a bit smarmy at times with attempts to boost his own ego and self-importance. But I didn't find these traits overwhelming. He was also pleasant, interesting, polite, thoughtful and considerate. In balance, he was an okay guy.

We danced together on a dance floor like something out of an old movie. Fortunately Klink really didn't know how to dance, so my own lack of ability in the waltz area went largely unnoticed.

I think that evening with Klink was the most enjoyable I'd spent since I popped back into the past.

* * *

"Colonel Hogan wants to see you back at camp," Olsen told me after we arrived back home that night.

My eyes widened. Was Hogan's information network so good he already knew I'd spent the evening with Klink? Or had Olsen simply picked up a telephone and called him? I wouldn't be surprised. They were much more forthright in their communications than I'd expected. A coded message over the telephone was actually more secure for them than a radio transmission.

We crept back through the woods to the camp perimeter late the next afternoon. My heart started to pound when I saw, again, the guards, the barbed wire, the guard towers. Daylight made it appear no friendlier. Other than some brushes with the local Gestapo agents, who Olsen made seem almost harmless, the whole sense of danger had faded for me. Now it was back in force.

Timing, timing… back down the tree stump into the tunnel. Better to be caught, it had been impressed on me, rather than compromise the secret of the tunnel. "Besides," Olsen said with a teasing grin, "your new boyfriend will think you're just coming to visit him." Funny boy.

The instructions and reminders were important, for Olsen did not come with me into the tunnels. I went down alone.

Sergeant Kinchloe awaited me at the tunnel end. I would have liked to have gotten to know him better, but though he had been unfailingly polite to me, he always remained somewhat distant and formal. I wrote it off to the times and treated him, in turn, with polite courtesy. This time, however, there was a curtness to his greeting suggesting some anger. It was hard to tell, so controlled was he.

It wasn't so hard to tell in Colonel Hogan. He was angry and no denying it.

"What?" I blurted.

With no preamble or greeting, Hogan demanded, "Do you know a person code named 'Tuttle four zero seven seven'?"

I ran it through a couple times, shaking my head as I did so. Then it clicked. Tuttle 4077, as in 4-oh-7-7 MASH. "Yes. I do know her. My God! Is she here?" Had someone followed up on my message?

"Describe her," Hogan ordered.

Oops. "Uh… she's uh… female. I think," I said. Good heavens. I didn't know what these people—friends and acquaintances in every real sense of the words—looked like. They were virtual. Try explaining that to an angry colonel in 1943 who believed his security had been compromised.

To Hogan's way of looking at it, things were adding up badly. A young girl with an odd code name, who I claimed to know but couldn't describe nor give a real name, showed up sabotaging their radio the night after I'd danced in the arms of Enemy Number One, Klink. Well… Enemy Number Two or maybe even Three. Hochstetter certainly rated higher than Klink.

About then Hogan and I had an out-and-out shouting match. It was probably a better move on my part than trying to explain and cajole. Hogan did not respect people who backed down. Eventually we reached a smoldering understanding. Operation Breadcrumbs would continue. They'd hold onto Tuttle for a few more days (as insurance, I suspected, hoping they wouldn't scare the girl too much). If everything seemed okay in a few days I'd acquire a 'daughter' in town with Olsen.

"And don't be so rough with any others who show up," I finished sharply.

Hogan folded his arms over his chest as he always did. "I will run my command as I must," he informed me coldly, "and take whatever security measures I believe are appropriate. We're baiting the Gestapo in to this time travel business, as you know perfectly well. If some stranger appears here I have no way to know if he or she is from your little club," he said the word disdainfully, "or if the Gestapo is sending in agents to infiltrate us."

"All right," I conceded. What else could I say? He was right. And he was in command. "By the way," I added as I turned back down the tunnel toward the exit, "I'll be dropping a 'breadcrumb' right here in Stalag 13 tomorrow night." I gave him a tight smile. "I have a date with Klink."

* * *

Newkirk led me up through the tunnel tree stump to guide me to where Olsen would be waiting. As we worked our way through the growing twilight away from the camp a _bang_ from the compound had Newkirk flinging me abruptly to the ground behind a tree. A squawk carried to us from the camp that despite the distance was distinctly in LeBeau's voice.

"Sounds like the same ruddy noise as when you dropped in," Newkirk muttered, keeping me down.

"I wonder…" I started, cut off as Newkirk abruptly shushed me. He cocked his head, listening hard ahead of us.

"Olson?" Newkirk called softly.

"Over here. We've got a small problem," Olson answered.

"Stay here," Newkirk ordered. Argue with Hogan as I may, I wasn't dumb enough, nor arrogant enough, to disobey these men in a situation such as this. A soldier, with a soldier's fine-tuned senses, I was not. I stayed quiet and stayed down.

Creeping forward through the woods, Newkirk disappeared from my sight. "What's up?" I heard him say.

"Her," Olson's voice came to me. "Says she's an American."

"Another one?" Newkirk said. "Has Stalag 13 become some sort of Allied female meeting place that no one has told us about?"

Olson sounded surprised, "You mean there's more?"

I heard Newkirk say, presumably not to Olsen, "Colonel will want to see you."

I dropped my head into my arms. Good heavens. How many had followed me here? And how would I explain to Klink about his new girlfriend's growing family?!


	18. Me

**Me**

I was taking a break from a few fics I was helping RKORadio modify - part of his "Sam Series" for "Full House" - when I decided to check the _Hogan's Heroes_ section, to see if there were any other funny Mary Sues around. I'd even written a parody about Mary Sues to the tune of "Hello, Mary Lou".

I decided to e-mail it to my friend for fun, then when I went to visit him, I remembered there'd been a page that had blanked out every time I clicked on it on - what could it be? Probably another crazy Sue, I said to myself, laughing.

Then, I heard about the photo - my friend had been in the National Archives (he's a huge history buff) and had seen it. I wondered, could there be a connection? With the blank page, and...nah. couldn't be.

Still, I thought, why not? If nothing else, the song will be immortalized. I printed out a copy of the song and took it to the Archives. Mysteriously, when I placed it in the box, it disappeared, but a bright light appeared. A light which seemed to...well, provide a portal, if you will. I hadn't touched anything, or I might have gone into it.

The bright light, for lack of a better word, was singing the words:

There's a Mary Sue  
In this fic  
Main characters all fall in love with her.  
Can't see what makes all  
These writer's tick,  
When they put Mary Sues in the fic.

Some Dark Ages peasant's sister  
Somehow invents the transistor  
F-18s blow the Red Baron away.  
Some brazen kid comes from the blue  
And wins the heart of someone who  
Normally wouldn't give the time of day.

When it's a Mary Sue,  
in the part,  
It's someone who thinks every love is true.  
Nothing they can't do,  
Right from the start,  
When there's a Mary Sue in the part.

With almost magic powers blessed  
Seems like there's an "S" 'cross Sue's chest  
But scant thinking is given to the tome.  
Their tenses shift like big earthquakes,  
They'll write "2 stop apply the breaks,"  
You may read of Wal-Mart in Ancient Rome,

If there's Mary Sues  
In the tome,  
Laws of physics may even fail to stick.  
She could even get  
Gilligan home  
If there's a Mary Sue in the tome.

Some near perfect characters work  
A Lone Ranger or Captain Kirk  
And it's okay to have one save the day.  
But even these men have their flaws,  
Spock or Tonto who helps their cause  
But Mary Sues just live by the cliché.

When there's Mary Sue  
In the work  
They dominate and make good fics berserk.  
It's a real poor way  
For fans to lurk  
By putting Mary Sue in the work  
By putting Mary Sue in the work  
By putting Mary Sue in the work

I wondered, if there was a portal, if singing the song might bring them back. So, in case anyone from some other dimension wanted to come to our world, I hastily scribbled a note while the song was playing:

"If you want to escape, you must sing this song."

I threw it into the opening just as it was about to close. It went...somewhere. And, I left, decided that had been too freaky to tell anyone.


	19. Hogan's Chapter 2

**Hogan's Interim Chapter 2**

"Colonel Hogan, stop scaring the kids!" that ever-more annoying woman, GSJessica, demanded.

Hogan was willing to admit it. He was on the verge of cracking. These women from the future were going to break him like Hochstetter and the Gestapo never would. Spinning away from her, Hogan raised his fist to smack the tunnel wall, then dropped it abruptly with a sigh that came out more as a whimper. They were driving him to distraction. He'd even smacked one of them when he couldn't take the sobbing and cussing one moment longer. And he felt like a worthless dog about it ever since. Striking a woman… him.

"Listen," he said through gritted teeth, "I am doing what I must to take care of the security of this operation."

"Chaining up little IronAmerica?!" GSJessica almost yelled. "She's a dear, sweet girl who's just a bit… exuberant. She'll settle down. And convincing poor Tuttle you meant to kill her? Handcuffing Jake? And _hitting_ Niente Zero? That is not the behavior of an officer and a gentleman."

That one was below the belt. "An officer and a gentleman _like Klink_?" he snapped back.

She glared back coldly. "Yes."

Hogan sighed again and collapsed down on a stool. "That little IronAmerica girl threatened to tell Klink about us. And Jake showed up just before roll call—had to be secured just for a short time for everyone's safety. And Niente was getting hysterical… And do you really call these people by these code names? All the time?" he ended.

With a shrug, she said, "Those are their names, at least as we got to know each other." She chuckled. "You know, I really wish Tirathon had shown up. Aside from her encyclopedic knowledge being a big help to us, I would dearly love to see two major Type A personalities like you two going at it."

Hogan frowned. Sometimes he only understood half of what she, and the others said, and did not like to have to ask what they meant. He also suspected Jessica realized this and did it to him on purpose.

As he did to Klink? Hogan's frown changed to a scowl and Jessica's grin widened in direct proportion to his discomfort. Yeah, well.. she liked Klink, so no accounting for taste.

"Well," Hogan said, giving up on settling the dispute with GS. At least he and the recently-arrived Linda got along. Linda seemed to understand him like none of the others did, though he caught some odd, studying looks from her at times that made him somehow more uneasy than Hochstetter's probing glares did. He couldn't account for the sensation. Linda seemed like a perfectly pleasant woman otherwise, not at all like a master Gestapo torturer-type.

Shaking off that train of thought, Hogan waved the paper which had been found in the tunnels. "Well, let's get back up and see if we can decipher this."

* * *

"We have to sing," one of the time travelers gathered around the Barracks Two table said dismally upon reading the paper.

"I don't sing," another put in dryly.

"And we don't even know the tune."

"Oh!" IronAmerica put in brightly. "It's to the tune of 'Hello, Mary Lou', and we have to all sing in unison and hold hands. That'll send us back to our correct time."

Hogan, GSJessica, and Linda exchanged dark and dubious looks.

"Uh huh, sure," Hogan said shortly. "I'm willing to try anything."

Reluctantly, the time travelers joined hands and with dreadful harmony and pitch began to muddle their way through the song. Mid-way through, the barracks' door opened and Schultz barged in, pushing LeBeau (the door guard) aside barely noticing the hindrance.

The song wavered and they all looked up at Schultz, none even trying to hide their faces. A few cheerful "Schultz!" and "Schultzies!" were muttered. Hogan grimaced again—they really were going to break him, these… these… people!

Convincing Schultz, who had moved on to a painfully obvious 'know nothing' as he tried not to see the female faces grinning up at him, the song was something he needed to sing repeatedly to make all the strange events stop, Hogan rubbed his temples. Outside he could hear Schultz bellowing the lyrics to the Mary Sue song as he marched across the compound.

"Okay," Hogan said, marking an ending to the experiment. He crumpled the paper and tossed it in the stove. "We've left clues around town and even with Klink in the camp—honestly I think he's wearing that lip gloss you left, Jessica. I swear he smelled of strawberries when I was just over there." Hogan shook himself to clear the mental image. "No bites from the Gestapo or anyone else. I think Operation Breadcrumbs might be a dud. So, what's the next suggestion for getting all of you out of here?"

Just then Carter burst into the barracks. Excitedly, he announced, "Colonel, a staff car just drove in full of German scientists and one of them has a mysterious golden device that looks important!"

Hogan and GSJessica locked eyes. WTF?, Hogan thought.

* * *

**NOTE**: Thus our story is up to date with all submissions online, and all characters gathered together. Operation Breadcrumbs has apparently worked. Grab your character self up and plunge forward into more adventures. Take yourself, and the plot, any way you wish. New time travelers always welcome!


	20. LJ Groundwater Part 3

**LJ Groundwater-3**

"Really, Colonel, I don't know what to do!" I insist, as Colonel Hogan remains tightly closed into himself, arms crossed, head tucked down, pacing the small section of the tunnel we're in. It's cold down here, and it's deep. I mean _deep_ deep. In the show it always looked like it was just about ten or twelve feet down—heck, Jerry London told me as much himself, and he'd know—but I know from reading about the Great Escape that that couldn't be possible. Not if the prisoners wanted their digging to go undetected by the hearing devices embedded in the fences. So now... yeah. It's deep.

I wish I knew where the others have gone. They're all down here somewhere, having been summarily banished after a rather uncoordinated singing of a Ricky Nelson tune that was apparently supposed to send us all home, but which somehow only attracted Sergeant Schultz.

I must admit to having been a little nervous when Schultz appeared in the barracks. I mean, there are differences between the TV show and this un-reality we're in. Suppose Schultz was one of them? But thankfully, no.

And what's the deal with all these others? Thrilled to get to meet them in person, but admittedly we're all a little too off our game to truly appreciate the unique opportunity we've been given to meet up in the most unlikely of places. Besides, the thought of being stuck here forever does put a bit of a damper on things.

So Colonel Hogan's now told me all about this Operation Breadcrumbs that he planned, involving GS Jessica (_so_ cool to finally meet her) heading out with Olsen and leaving a lot of the modern-day stuff the heroes found in her handbag around outside. That wouldn't work with me. I don't have any high-tech nothin' in my bag. Even left my mobile phone behind... as usual. And mine doesn't even take pictures. I _did_ get rather a funny look from Newkirk when he found my most recent script (_Who's in Bed with the Butler?_), and Colonel Hogan held it for what I thought might have been a minute too long and stared at it, even though his mind was obviously ticking over (I could have sworn I could almost hear that process!) before putting it down. But other than a few photos and pens and money (very little), nothing fascinating there. No comb, not even a tube of lipstick. I'm such a non-girl.

"I'm not... looking for an answer from you," the Colonel says now. "I'm just..."

_Doing a plot summary for those of us who have tuned in late?_ I can't help thinking. I'm wise enough not to say it.

"...thinking. That book you had in your pocketbook—what was it?"

I think for a second. "A script. I do plays. You know, on stage," I add, probably unnecessarily. Where else do you do plays?

"So you act?" he asks.

"And occasionally direct," I say, relaxing a little into one of my favorite subjects. "I love it."

"How much German do you know?" the Colonel asks me suddenly.

"Uh... _jawohl_,_ guten abend_, and _auf __weidersehn_. That's about it." I don't dare tell him that I learned most of my German watching _Hogan's Heroes_ on TV, the rest by researching when I'm writing—uh... yeah.

Colonel Hogan nods thoughtfully. He's still thinking. I let a tiny smile creep up on my face while I watch him.

He catches it. "What?" he asks, suspicious.

Now the smile comes all the way through—I can't help it! "Nothing. It's just that..." I shrug and give in. "It's just I've always loved that look," I admit. "You know—the one that shows you're plotting."

The look I love drops off his face and is replaced by one of absolute frustration. "I hate that you all look at me like you know exactly what I'm thinking!"

"Disconcerting, huh?" I answered. I smile, try to get him to loosen up a bit. "Look, the show was a big hit. We all love it. And those of us who write about it—well, we've... studied the looks. And we... I... can't help but love seeing them in person!"

"Well, stop looking!" the Colonel commands. He seems upset. But then he smiles sheepishly, realizing how he sounds. "Sorry," he says. "It's just... still all sinking in."

"I know. I'm sorry, too. I'll try not to watch so much."

He smiles more broadly, a bit mischievously. I like it. "You can watch a _little_," he says.

I laugh. "Okay. So what do we do now?"

"Well the Gestapo put an end to any plans I had to have Newkirk crack Klink's safe and see if we can get our hands on that gold _thing_ that the Krauts came into camp with. Trust them to come in and ruin the party before it even begins."

"What did they say about it?" I ask. I know the Colonel and his men listened in on the conversation in the Kommandant's office—just we who seem to be the most directly affected by the thing weren't allowed to join them.

"Not much. They're too smart to let Klink in on anything. All he knows is that it needs to be held in safe keeping, and that the Gestapo is going to guard it—and _that_ means it's become just as dangerous outside the camp as inside for you all at the moment."

I nod understanding. "Hence why we've all been sent back down here."

"Uh-huh."

"Schultz is gonna have puppies," I say. Colonel Hogan furrows his brow. That phrase must be newer than World War Two. At least I didn't say, "Cool beans."

"Whatever he has, the Gestapo's all over the stuff we planted from one of your cohorts' pocketbooks. So we'll have to charm our way around them. Do you think you can do that?"

"_Me?"_

Colonel Hogan raises an eyebrow. "How good an actress are you?"

I rise to the challenge. "I'm _good_."

"Can you learn German? Quickly?"

"If I have a good teacher. But depending on how fast you need me to do it, I won't speak like a native."

"Can you play something to the effect of a high-class call girl?"

I almost laugh out loud. Has this man read the last two plays I've done? "Absolutely. Why?"

The Colonel smiles again. I like feeling like I'm finally working to this _advantage_ he mentioned earlier. "Because if you're not a rocket scientist, no one will be expecting more than a few phrases from you. And the phrases they _get_ might just distract them enough to let someone else get closer to the golden prize."

I nod approvingly, then hesitate. "Hang on," I say. "When I'm on stage playing a part I don't have to actually _do_ what a call girl does. How do I know the curtain will fall before I'm cornered _here_?"

"How good an actress are you?" he asks again.

"I'm _good_," I repeat. The Colonel says nothing. "So I'll make it up as I go along."

"I'll cast someone as Sir Gallahad to keep an eye on you so you don't get in over your head," he promises.

"Don't sell yourself short," I say, causing Colonel Hogan to raise his eyebrows in surprise. "The guy who played you on TV made you out to be a darned good actor."

"This other Colonel Hogan sounds like Superman," he says, with a touch of amusement, and an equal touch of what could be seen as envy.

"Nah," I answer. "Different actor. May I start learning German now?"

"Certainly, _Fraulein_," Hogan says, finally getting comfortable. "I'll go find you a good teacher, okay?"

"_Gesundheit,"_ I reply. The Colonel looks at me, slightly alarmed. "Just kidding,"I add, as he lets out a breath of relief. _"Danke."_


	21. Jake Duncan Part 2

**Jake Duncan-2**

On the show, roll calls rarely took more than a minute or two; I knew that, in real life, they could last as long as several hours, depending on what bone the commandant had to pick with his prisoners. Things having come to a standstill, I expected that the dream was going to shift to something else entirely, only it didn't. The dampness in the tunnel was starting to set my arthritic hip to aching, which I was sure was going to wake me up, but that didn't do the job, either.

I had once discovered that if, in the course of a dream, I came to realize that it _was_ a dream, I could change its direction at will, or even wake myself up. I tried it now. It didn't work. That could only mean one thing.

No. Impossible.

I considered what I had done immediately before finding myself in the tunnel. I had been looking at several faded photographs and, my eyes still on the photos, had reached into the box for a folder. I'd missed and ended up feeling around the bottom of the box, and then I'd been here.

Wait. Hadn't I touched something? Yes; my fingers had brushed against something cold and metallic. I hadn't even had a chance to feel its shape or size. A thought occurred to me that made me half-grin, half-wince: new dimensions to the phrase, "touch and go."

My feet were getting tired, and I tried to sit on the ground, but my cuffed arm ended up kind of hanging in the handcuff, which very shortly started to hurt like the dickens as the metal dug into the skin at my wrist, so I got up again and settled for leaning against the wall instead

I don't own a watch or a cellphone, so I had no idea how long I had been standing there when I heard the distant rattling sound of the tunnel opening, followed by voices. They were talking quietly, and I couldn't make out what they were saying, but I could identify the voices: Newkirk, and Hogan himself.

My heart nearly stopped. I wasn't dreaming, and I had no idea how I had gotten here, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was, GS Jessica had been right! _It was all real!_

At 53, I'd thought my "squee-ing" days were long over. I was wrong. A familiar giddiness the likes of which I hadn't felt in years washed over me, which I somehow managed to keep hidden, but I had to dig into my long-unused military bearing to do it.

When Colonel Hogan came into view, it was like being hit between the eyes with a two-by-four. There was a certain _presence_ about him, the sort of thing that let you know, even if there had been no uniforms or rank insignia involved, that he was in charge. It set off every military reflex I still owned; I stood away from the wall, though it was only with some effort that I managed not to snap to attention. He looked me up and down in a manner which suggested he had noticed, but he didn't say anything about it, only asking my name.

"Jake Duncan," I told him, and immediately both his and Newkirk's eyebrows went up, a reaction I'm quite used to; I get it all the time. "My father wanted a boy," I added with a shrug.

"Suppose you tell me how you got down here," Colonel Hogan asked.

"I wish I knew. I reached into a box, touched something metallic at the bottom, and here I am."

"Where were you before you touched this metal item?"

"In the National Archives in Washington."

"And what brought you there in the first place?" The questions were coming rapid-fire, as if he was half-expecting what my answers were going to be and was seeking to confirm.

"Something I read on the…" Oh, shoot. The 'Net wasn't going to make any sense to him; there were only two computers in the whole world in his time, and they were the size of _buildings,_ for crying out loud.

"Internet?" he finished for me, and my jaw dropped. Then I remembered what Newkirk had said: _another_ one.

"Uh, yeah," I stammered, and felt myself redden. I don't look my age; I'm often taken for 30, and sometimes even younger; a couple of times, high-school kids have tried to chat me up. What was he seeing? A ditzy dame? _ogodogodogodogodogod…_ Somehow I stopped my brain from yammering. "How many others have dropped in on you?" I asked, because it was the only way he would have known that word.

"Too bloody many," Newkirk mumbled; Hogan shot him a look that would have frozen steam, and turned back to me.

"Exactly what was it you touched?" he asked.

"I don't know; I never saw it. I had a folder out of the box and reached in for the next one without looking."

"Tell me, how was this box designated in the Archives?"

"By a number." Carefully, moving slowly, I reached into a pocket and pulled out the slip of paper I had written it on. "0876707."

Looking resigned, he gave a sigh. "Tell me, just how widespread is this 'Internet' of yours?"

I knew what he was really asking: How many others were likely to drop in on them? Hesitantly, I told him, "It's worldwide. How many actually go to the particular site where I heard about this box, I don't know, but I think that probably only a handful are going to be able to make the trip to DC to see it for themselves."

Hogan sighed and turned to Newkirk. "Put her in with the rest," he said tiredly, then turned and left.

Only then, with that overwhelming presence gone, did it occur to me that they had found near doubles for Hogan and Newkirk in Bob Crane and Richard Dawson, but the actors hadn't played them right. They couldn't, not in a comedy. The real people were a lot…grimmer, reflecting the serious nature of what they did.

And we…however many of us there were…were a huge Security Risk, something only a GI or a military kid could even begin to truly understand. And if the security classification was high enough, and the risk determined to be great enough, there was only one way to neutralize that risk. So the big question right now wasn't, how was I going to get home, but rather, was I going to survive.

The dream had just become a nightmare.


	22. Tuttle4077 Part 4

**Tuttle4077-4**

**Bad Jokes and French**

I was in a real jam, I tell you. Or a pickle. Or any other food analogy that could mean I was in trouble. There I was, surrounded by fictional characters who were about ready to kill me. And I, paralyzed with fear, couldn't think of an intelligent thing to say. Colonel Hogan had taken my purse and gone through everything in it. If I hadn't been shaking like a leaf, I may have even laughed when he looked over all the receipts I had in there. "Fifty dollars for a pair of pants?" he had marveled at one point. "Sixteen litres of milk?!"

My MP3 player and digital camera were carefully inspected and I had to stop myself from lunging forward to snatch them away in fear they would get broken. I was surprised how easily he figured them out and a little perturbed when he pocketed them.

The biggest eyebrow raiser, of course, was the money in my wallet. The purple and blue bills weren't a big deal, but he almost laughed when I gathered some courage and helpfully told him the coins were called 'loonies' and 'toonies'. Americans.

The most cringe inducing moment, however, was when the colonel tried to pronounce my name as he read my driver's license. He finally settled on the most atrocious pronunciation I had ever heard in my entire life (and I've heard some doozies) but I was too terrified to correct him. Then he asked me if I had a code name. A code name? What in the heck was he talking about?

Hmmmm… Well, this whole thing started in an HH fan group. So… did he mean my screen name? Possible. I decided to give it a go. If it was possible, he thought my 'codename'- Tuttle4077- was more ridiculous than my actual name.

With a grunt, Colonel Hogan left me with Carter to go talk to "the other one" when she arrived, leaving instructions to shoot if I tried to escape. Still, I managed to relax somewhat around Carter. He offered me a seat at Hogan's desk and started going through my stuff. He didn't try to talk, which struck me as odd. Carter always had something to say.

The silence was killing me.

"So, two atoms were walking down the street," I suddenly found myself saying. A good bad joke could always lighten the mood, especially when told in my impossibly chipper voice. Still, I was surprised I was actually telling one. But, I figured that if they were going to shoot me, I was at least going to give them a reason.

Carter blinked and looked at me oddly. "The first one said, 'Hey! I think I lost an electron!' and the second one said, 'Are you sure?' and the first one said, 'Yup! I'm positive!'" Carter seemed confused for a moment, then his mouth twitched. He quickly coughed, but I knew he was just trying to cover a laugh. No matter how much they may deny it, people are suckers for really bad jokes. Bad jokes like that are just too dumb not to laugh at!

"Did you ever hear the story about the broken pencil? It had no point!" Carter rolled his eyes, but grinned. "What do you call a running chicken? Poultry in motion! What did one strawberry say to the other? 'If you hadn't been so fresh last night, we wouldn't be in this jam!' Two televisions got married. The wedding was boring but the reception was beautiful." I barely noticed the blank stare Carter gave me for that one. I was babbling now. "What did one mushroom say to the other? 'I'm-'"

Before I could finish my horrible joke, Colonel Hogan came in (possibly saving Carter's IQ), looking even angrier than when he left. Oh boy, I was dead. Well, that was show business.

"Carter, take her down in the tunnel and post a guard. If she tries to break out, shoot her."

"What did she say?" Carter asked, as I went five shades whiter (if that was even possible).

"She knows her. Sort of. Couldn't give a real name, describe her, nothing."

"But you believed her?"

Hogan scowled and muttered something under his breath. It sounded like 'pushy dame' or something. Regaining his composure, he straightened and tugged at his jacket. "Yeah. Problem is, she knows her, but doesn't _know_ her." He gestured to me. "She may be part of the same network, but nothing says she isn't a saboteur just the same."

"I'm not!"

Hogan rolled his eyes. "We'll see. Get going, Carter."

Carter grabbed my arm and led me out. There was some sort of commotion outside. I didn't get a chance to see what was going on because Carter hurried me down the ladder. I nearly had a panic attack. I hate ladders- ladders meant heights. The tunnel was deeper than I had ever thought and heights scare the heck out of me.

I was taken to a small room down in the tunnels, a guard, with a gun, posted outside. Left to rot with nothing but sad, depressing thoughts. I contemplated the thought of trying to escape, but ended up laughing as I imagined how pathetic my attempt would be. So, I sat and waited.

To make a long story short, "the other one" turned out to be GSJessica herself. Boy, was I going to give her a piece of mind when I saw her. It was because of her I was in this mess to begin with! Of course, she did manage to smooth Colonel Hogan's feathers enough that I didn't end up in a gunnysack at the bottom of the ocean. Even managed to spring me after a few days. Well, I was never one to hold a grudge anyway. I'd forgive her.

* * *

"We have to sing," I said dismally, reading the piece of paper that had appeared in camp, supposedly from the future. Here I was, all excited that the genius Colonel Hogan had found a way home for us and this is what I got. Apparently, singing the lyrics on the page would get us home. Not that I was opposed to singing silly songs mind you, but, well, it seemed rather anticlimactic.

A few other time travelers, fellow Hogan Heroes fans, voiced their displeasure. Someone pointed out we didn't even know the tune. Good point.

"It's to the tune of 'Hello, Mary Lou', and we have to all sing in unison and hold hands. That'll send us back to our correct time," someone said cheerfully. Right, because I knew that song. And as for holding hands and singing? Too Kumbaya for me, thanks.

Oh, well, Hogan was game. I think it was just desperation that motivated him. But I was already in his bad books, so I'd play along, just to keep him from shooting me.

I have never in my entire life heard such an awful noise. It actually made me miss my sisters and their flippin' sweet harmonizing skills. Luckily, we were saved by Schultz, who burst into the barracks. I couldn't help but grin. I hadn't seen Schultz before now and, unlike the rest, he was exactly the way he was supposed to be. He even went into his 'I know nothing' routine. Oh Schultzie. He was awesome!

"Okay." Hogan crumpled the paper and tossed it in the stove after Schultz had left, singing the ridiculous song. "We've left clues around town and even with Klink in the camp—honestly I think he's wearing that lip gloss you left, Jessica. I swear he smelled of strawberries when I was just over there." I blinked in surprise and looked at Jessica. Klink? Seriously. At the same time as Hogan, shook myself to clear the mental image. It didn't work. I'd have to squeegee my brain. "No bites from the Gestapo or anyone else. I think Operation Breadcrumbs might be a dud. So, what's the next suggestion for getting all of you out of here?"

What we needed was…

Just then Carter burst into the barracks. Excitedly, he announced, "Colonel, a staff car just drove in full of German scientists and one of them has a mysterious golden device that looks important!"

Exactly. I knew there was a reason I liked Carter so much.

* * *

"Well, I'm sorry!! But how in the heck are you supposed to pronounce a word with five hundred letters in it!!" I cried when Newkirk threw his hands up in frustration. I was getting a crash course in German and it was not going well. But unless I wanted to stay down in the tunnels for the rest of my life, I was going to have to. Jessica was living in town posing as Olsen's mother. I never missed a chance to tease her about her cover. What can I say? I'm a jerk. Anyway, I was going to go in as her daughter. (My attempts to bug her about Klink didn't work. She was _okay_ with being thought of as Klink's girlfriend!... ?!...)

"Blimey," Newkirk muttered. "I had to be stuck with you, didn't I."

"Hey! You _could_ be teaching 'jail-bait' what's-her-name!" I groused.

"A bit jealous, are we?"

"Oh, extremely," I said sarcastically, rolling my eyes. "I've always wanted a man ten years my senior to swoon over me."

"You'd be lucky to have any man swoon over you."

"Oh, hahaha, very funny. A regular Groucho Marx. Now how about impersonating Harpo for a while."

"Now don't get your knickers in a knot. Here, look, German is not that hard," he said, tapping my book.

"It's no use," I sighed as I looked over the words. "I'll just stay in these tunnels forever and never go out and turn into a vampire and- and-"

"Oh, blimey," Newkirk groaned, dropping his forehead into his hand and rubbing it. "Calm down."

"I am calm! Just facing the sad, sad facts! Why don't y'all just call me up when this whole thing is sorted out."

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Look here, the guv' is working on getting you back. But in the meantime, you can't stay down here."

"Why not?"

With a sigh, Newkirk threw his head back and looked up at the ceiling as if searching for some sort of miracle. "Because Kinch doesn't want to have to post a guard at his radio for every second of the bleeding day."

Back to that again. Boy, Kinch sure knew how to hold a grudge. "So they'd rather send me into town where I can blow Olsen's cover?"

"That or shoot you." He looked very tempted.

I let out a sigh. My thoughts were decidedly dreary when LeBeau came in with a platter with two bowls. "Lunch," he announced, taking a bowls and shoving it into my hands.

"You know, LeBeau, if you don't make it as a chef, you could definitely be a fine waiter," I said dryly, brushing off the soup that had fallen on my lap in the exchange.

"What is this?" Newkirk asked, after inspecting the bowl's contents with a disgusted look on his face.

"A very good French soup," LeBeau said, offering no further explanation. I had a sinking feeling it was something like eel. Joy. Deflating, I glanced over at Newkirk who had a similarly weary expression.

"French, eh?"

"Mais oui. The best."

"Blimey, LeBeau, I don't mind if you off her, but what have you got against me?" Newkirk asked. "What is this? Fish stew?" LeBeau turned a little red and I hid a smile. My favorite bits in the show more often than not revolved around Newkirk, LeBeau and food. It was nice to know that their little spats existed in real life too.

"Hey, It's not that I've got anything against French food. I'm actually quite fond of poutine!"

"Barbarians," LeBeau muttered, followed by a string of French.

"Oh dear." I understood enough French to be shocked by what he said. "That's not very nice."

"You understood that?" Newkirk asked.

I shrugged. "Bits and pieces. I was forced to take French for six years in school. He talks really fast though and, well, some of those words weren't exactly in the government-approved curriculum."

Newkirk grinned and thumped LeBeau on the back. "Well, that's the solution, isn't it. Why didn't you say something before? Louis, teach her French."

"No! Please! French is the bane of my existence!" I begged, earning an insulted look from LeBeau. "I mean, I mean… uh…"

"You want to stay in the ruddy tunnel for forever?" Newkirk asked.

"No," I pouted. "It's just… ugh. I hate French so much, that it-it-it...flames... flames on the sides of my face...and breathing...breaths-heaving breaths...heaving…" Newkirk and LeBeau were looking at me strangely. "Uh, that's it, actually. End of quote."

"French or German, take your pick," Newkirk said, shaking his head.

I scowled and crossed my arms over my chest. I didn't know a scrap of German. French, however, I knew a bit of. Six years in school plus a childhood of reading it on the back of cereal boxes had to count for something. And really, did I want to stay down in these tunnels? Being Queen of the Mole People wasn't really something I had envisioned for my life. "But how am I supposed to pass as Olsen's sister if I only speak French?"

"You don't have to be his sister," LeBeau said. "You can be a collaborator."

Oh great. I'd rather be the mole queen. But what choice did I have? Though I had always wanted to learn German, it seemed that, for the moment anyway, French was the faster, more practical route. I could pick up German later when I had my French identity in place. "Okay, fine." It couldn't hurt when I got back home.

What followed was a grueling refresher course in French. It was intense- like camping. I was actually amazed at just how much French was jammed in my subconscious. It didn't take long for it to come bubbling to the surface. Of course, I would supplement words I didn't know with Spanish, which was far fresher in my mind. And as for my accent, according to LeBeau, it was absolutely atrocious. I tried to explain the difference between real French, French and Québécois, but he didn't seem interested.

Anyway, after a few tears, most of them from LeBeau, a few shouts of frustration- again, mostly from LeBeau- and a lot of hard work, my French finally gained LeBeau's approval.


	23. Byakugan789

(note: Byakugan is IronAmerica's older brother, mentioned in one of her chapters)

**An interesting turn of events**

**Byakugan789**

I do not own Hogan's heroes, GSJessica, Naruto, the Black Magi trilogy, any buildings in Washington DC or any other referenced works. I wish I owned Naruto, or rather that S'TarKan did maybe, but I own not but my own idea which you now find yourselves in the mis/fortune of witnessing.

As a rule I don't like most fan-fictions.

It's rare that a good author sees the point in taking time from writing a paying script to give it much thought, but there have been a few.

I was skeptical at first when I received a call from my youngest sister excitedly babbling about one of her friends finding evidence that the people from Hogan's Heroes actually existed. Of course the area her friend claimed to have found such information was at least logical; the national archives were full of esoteric information and even held the odd magical artifact of the type I enjoyed hunting down. But I quickly dismissed it and placed in on my list of things she was sure to discuss with me upon my return from my latest escapade.

I'm a wanderer by nature, I've always loved the novels and games that would allow your mind to literally come hither and explore a vast alien environment. I suppose that's how I got into the hunters. We were a privately funded group of nerds with an unspeakable cash flow and a thrill for adventure. My targets were magicians. Mages, mystics, shaman, warlocks, shinobi and your common run of the mill fraud. The latter were most prevalent with the others being rare and scattered. Though I have managed to build up a much greater portfolio than I had ever imagined I might find on earth.

But I digress. I soon returned home to file my latest report and hang my latest trophy in my closet, some primal force trinkets I had 'liberated' from a particularly vile pair of frauds, when I saw my mother standing on the porch looking livid. I wondered what I possibly could have done this time when I paused for a moment. Where was Dasha? She had practically made me promise to tell her about my latest hunt and where I might incorporate into the game Westwood had me working on.

I slid off of my Yamaha and slowly up the porch steps of our house where I now pay rent on my every now and then used room. I looked up at my mother and said "what did she do this time?" not the most brotherly question but then again something about my fascinations is always prompting Dasha to do something stupid.

"You never answered any of my summons is what you did, Devon. Your little sister has been missing for a week and you were the last person to hear from her" Mom grated. "She got really excited last Saturday and bugged me no end to take her to the national archives where she promptly disappeared! And there was one of those trinkets you've been filling that far too spacious closet of yours with where she disappeared."

That caught my attention. My mother noticed. And that was how I found myself in Washington D.C. looking for the national archives box 0876707.

It was rather more difficult to get in than I suspected it would be. Apparently there had been A LOT of people disappearing in that area recently. Of course it didn't help that I had decided to throw caution to the winds (quite literally) and use and use one of my trinkets from my excursion into the 'hidden lands'.

It was a rather interesting piece of work; to any bystander it looked like a worn leather duster with a lot of funky Japanese symbols inscribed into the back, but to anyone who could summon chakra it was a psychotic rocket pack that would send you anywhere on the wind element express. It was in NO way the safest method of travel, but as the crow flies it's always faster.

Landing on the roof of an adjacent building I started searching for skylights. Nothing, the building was crafted in the 'classical roman style' and there were what looked like secret service and FBI at the few windows the place allowed. Eventually I settled on a simple distraction. I took one of my smallest explosive tags and attached it to a pebble, triggering it and tossing it down the steps it made sufficient enough smoke and noise for me to henge into one of the guards and enter the premises unnoticed.

I walked fast toward where the box was supposed to be and stopped just around the corner from its resting place. Damn. Whatever was in that box was dangerous, I hope no one was fool enough to touch the damn thing. I peered around the corner to where I 'sensed' the stench. Just my luck the latest group of space suited idiots was leaving with their Geiger counters and data pads. I quickly darted over and pulled out a suppression tag. The ofuda was complicated and it was my last one but it should be sufficient to allow me to grab the medallion lying in the box without triggering it.

Maybe now would be a good time to explain what I meant by stench. All high energy objects give off a certain feel, whether they are mystical, electrical or even quantum mechanical.

Electrical 'auras' were more of a 'feeling', static electricity, a tightness, excitement, as if something is about to move but isn't.

Magical 'auras' seemed to center around the other senses based on which of the three energies you used and how. Within the body there are three basic energies. Spirit energy, which I have yet to find a feasible explanation for, emanating from the hara just above your stomach; mental energy, created by bio electricity twisting and turning through your brain; and physical energy, generated by chemical reactions throughout your body. In the bodies of most people there is hardly enough of the fused energies for them to even make a spark but for those who can Arcanum is forged by forcibly missing the energies of the mind with the energies of the spirit by forcing it through your circulatory system and into your hara. Charka is made in the same method but using physical energy in place of mental and primal is made by mixing physical and mental.

Arcanum was my favorite; it seemed to center around the ears and without needing your eardrums as a medium seemed to sing to those nearby. The melody differed as the purpose changed so it wasn't always the most pleasant experience though as you couldn't block it out.

Chakra seemed to mostly center on the vision; it gave off kind of a glow that could be 'seen' from a few feet away.

Primal was a lot like electrical in that you felt it deep inside you. Like calmness gained from watching water or joy from feeling the wind play with your hair and caress your cheek on a mountain side.

But quantum energy just 'stunk', almost literally. And what was worse, the smell wasn't uniform which meant the stupid thing was broken.

As I trotted off with the malodorous circle of what looked to be gold, I searched for a spot to hide myself. Working out what I was supposed to do with this thing would be difficult enough without the government squint squad looking over my shoulder and taking notes on things they really shouldn't.

I soon set myself up in a small 'research cubicle' with a sturdy and sealable door. I quickly wrote some wards on it and went to the desk to get to work. Pulling out a blank scroll I began preparing to analyze the object of my troubles. I had to be careful with this, quantum artifacts capable of disappearing people to unknown locations were rare and often had personalities of their own. This one being broken I could only pray that it wasn't 'feeling' vindictive as I drew a series of binding circles and imaging runes in various crystal laced inks. Once I felt satisfied that I had done all I could I gingerly picked up the medallion by the suppression ofuda I still had it in and gingerly slipped it out into the center of the page.

Immediately the paper flared. So much energy…I hadn't been expecting this. This was sooooo much more than a simple teleportation device. As the light show died down and the seals stopped smoking an image began to form above the paper. The matrix that bound the thing was unlike anything I had ever worked with before and was complicated on a level that almost completely blew me away.

The 'medallion' as I had dubbed it was an experimental piece from the year 3429 and was, as far as I could figure, highly illegal research. Over the course of the next four hours I managed to figure out that the original creator had decided to go back in time to an era when forging fortunes was still a possibility. What he hadn't counted on was that letting one's mind wander while in a time tunnel tended to throw the user off course. He had landed right in the middle of Nazi Germany during one of their brutality parades where Hitler was screaming and sweating buckets and mindless German automatons were marching in lockstep and firing off every few minutes.

The 'medallion' went haywire when he was shot in midair frantically trying to work the controls and move himself to a more pleasant time and location. And then, what do you know, it decided to be taken to Stalag 13 where it sensed itself. Or rather were it would later dump its handiwork.

I raised an eyebrow as the images faded. This would certainly be interesting. Slipping on a glove with more writing and a few gems on the knuckles I pointed my two middle fingers at the medallion. I supposed I could simply touch it bare handed like the others obviously had but I wanted to control where I entered. It simply wouldn't do to land in the middle of the camp and ruin Hogan's operation, that would likely get my sister killed and mom would NOT think to highly of that.

Using chakra wires I slowly lifted 'my' medallion and subtlety attempted to coax it to send me to its previous location just before it began its final trip to the prison camp. The medallion began to spin and glow. It started slow but rapidly increased in intensity until it blocked everything else out.

And then suddenly it stopped. No more foul odor. No more blinding golden light. No more hurricane force winds threatening to throw me against the wall. As my senses settled back to normal I began taking note of my surroundings. I was in a large stone room. There was the electrical buzz of large overhead lights above me and, of all things I was standing on a table. Before me was the medallion. And before it was,..oh shit. I was surrounded by no less than 30 Gestapo. At least five of them were quite obviously from the nerd team, brought in to figure out the shiny gold disk from nowhere™, two dozen of them were mixed guards interrogation specialists and enforcers, and sitting at the desk his mouth hanging open was a short balding Gestapo officer.

"_Oh boy_" I said out loud in rough German "_this is going to be interesting_." Major Hochstetter of the Gestapo only grinned.

* * *

**GSJessica note:** I have a couple comments to add about this chapter and its integration into the story. Stop into the Stalag 13C Forum to read them.


	24. Niente Zero Part 3

**Niente Zero - 3**

Traditionally, when one comes back from a war, there's supposed to be a little tyke to perch by one's knee and enquire with starry gaze as to what exactly it was that one did during said time of military conflict. That ain't gonna happen. Kids. I'm allergic. It's all the... mucus... and other fluids they accumulate.

But supposing I were to get out of this situation, and supposing that a child, mine, or more likely one foist upon me for minding by a relative, asked that sort of question, well, here's what I did during the war.

Firstly, I should say that I clammed up hard when Colonel Hogan tried to find out what I thought I knew about the operation. I don't think any of them believed my blissful ignorance act, but as it turned out, there were other, brighter sparks who had already told the Colonel enough about our wild time-travel ride that whatever his suspicions were, he wasn't ready to make a snap decision about my fate.

Secondly, Colonel Hogan knew how to apologize like a gentleman. And that's all I'm saying about that, because somewhere in the whole mess I found my manners, just like Granny taught me, and when an arrogant man shows enough humility to apologize for a slap I very probably earned (in a historical context, is all I am saying) he doesn't deserve to have it all hashed out.

Having said that, things went from hair-raising to boring and routine a lot faster than I could have anticipated. Understand, I am a coward. A grade-A lily livered, yellow-bellied coward. What I wanted most was to go home, but in the absence of that I was going for not pissing off the guys who could hang me out to dry. In the service of that aim, I jammed a plum in my mouth, rounded off my colonial vowels to my grandmother's prettier boarding-school tones, dropped the F-word for the occasional mild 'drat', remembered to cross my legs at the ankles and started behaving like a woman. An archetypical woman of the early to mid twentieth century. All right, I may have gone a bit overboard on channeling Nora Charles. But I couldn't get by with my, ah, brash modern persona in place. I'm chicken. And I'm a people pleaser.

Those of us who had showed up were largely confined to living in the tunnels. And once I'd adapted to that concept, I was... I'm not going to say fine with it, but no longer in fear for my immediate safety, and that worked for me. It was actually kind of nice in a weird, "wrong time, wrong place" way to meet the other authors. I've met a lot of internet people, it's a commonplace for me, but this was a new twist on it for sure!

There was this plan going down, this elaborate scheme, and I did make it clear that I'd be happy to help, but my talents do not lie in the Mata Hari realm. I figured that I'd lay low and help out with practical matters as best I could until it came to a crunch, and then I'd find the guts to do whatever needed to be done to keep Hogan's operation safe and more importantly to me on a personal level, get us all HOME!

Which gets us to what I did during the war.

Folks, I gotta tell you, those guys had a LOT of socks that needed darning.


	25. Catalyna Part 3

**Catalyna-3**

Colonel Hogan, arms across his chest, let a burst of air escape his lips instead of saying whatever he was thinking. Obviously not something he'd say in front of a lady. I'm no doctor, nor do I portray one, but I think he was also beginning to get one hell of a headache.

Meanwhile, I had stopped blubbering and was waiting to see what was going to happen. Someone had put a cup of coffee in my hands. Oh, my! I'm not a coffee snob, really I'm not. It doesn't have to be Starbucks or any other fancy-schmancy coffee. If anything, I'm just the opposite: I don't like real strong coffee, I don't like it real weak; actually, I'm more of a Vanilla Latte or Dolce Cappuccino drinking type of girl. This was not either. It was strong enough that I fully expect if any of these men were to disrobe from the waist up, they would look as if they were all in gorilla suits. I mean this was truly put-hair-on-the-chest coffee. Someone, I think it was Newkirk took pity on me and took the cup away; shortly returning with a cup of tea. Now, strong tea, I can deal with.

As I said, we were all waiting to see what the Colonel would do. I kept his handkerchief, promising myself I was going to wash it first chance I got and give it back to him. Finally, Colonel Hogan looked like he had made a decision and told Olsen to take me to the "guest" quarters and lock me in. "Guest" quarters? Hopefully that meant the place where they had downed airmen stay until they could safely get out of camp rather than their own private cooler. And don't think I didn't notice that Colonel Hogan quickly whispered something into Olsen's ear and Olsen nodding before he took me into one of the tunnels.

The room was roughly hewn into the tunnel and it did have a door: with a lock. Great. But, on the other hand, it did have a comfy chair, a bunk, a makeshift bookcase with all sorts of odd books and magazines (some were the kind you would expect in a camp full of men without women; and appeared to be the most dog-eared), and a table of sorts with a wind up Victrola and records. Hey, this could be fun. Well, except, I couldn't see a toilet or bathroom and I would be locked in for how long I did not know. Luckily, I'm not claustrophobic. If anything, I love tunnels, caves and caverns. It's not the tight closed in spaces that get me; it's the cavern with the high ceiling. I know it's irrational, but I always think the high ceilings are going to fall, while I feel quite comfortable with low ceilings. Stupid, I know. They both have the same chance of falling.

"Um, is there a necessary down here?"

"Necessary for what? Oh." answered Olsen, realizing what at the same time he asked.

"Yeah." I'm sorry, but I was almost laughing. He was turning such a delightful red, especially for one with such a dark coloring.

"Well, there's one here," he said pushing aside a curtain showing what looked like the inside of a one-holer outhouse. "Lime is here," showing a bucket of white powder.

Gee, just like when I went camping when I was younger. Fun.

I decided that I really didn't need to go right away and turned to look at the records. Some were those thick about a ¼ inch 78's I hadn't seen in ages. Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, the Andrews Sisters, Glen Miller were all represented and some I didn't recognize such as: the Howard Godfrey Orchestra, Flanagan and Allen, and Freddy Gardner and his Swing Orchestra. I put on one song I knew and liked: In the Mood.

Olsen showed me how to work the Victorola, and I was able to play the record. I guess I must have been at least moving my head to the music, because when I looked over to Olsen he was grinning and spread out his arms in invitation to dance.

"Nah"

"Com'on," his grin getting larger. "Do you know how long it's been since I've dance with a real woman?" Not long if the show had gotten his role right, and I had a feeling they did.

Yes, I do know how to dance. I've been subjugated to learning how since elementary school by well meaning teachers and administrators. In junior high and high school, I used to learn dancing whenever we had a choice between dancing and sports. For some reason, I was always put on the teams with the girl jocks and almost getting killed while they were running up to the net or basket to make the winning play. I'm sorry, my life and limbs mean much more to me than some stupid game with a ball. Don't even mention field hockey to me, girls with clubs? Hah! Some of those teams I played on would make even Hochstetter curl up in a ball and cry. Luckily I have inherited some of my mother's talent for dancing. (Besides, I do love dancing!)

It wasn't until I was in full swing when I looked up and seeing Olsen grinning down at me when I realized what was happening. "You Son of a Bitch!"

"Wh-What?" at least he looked confused.

"You're playing good cop/bad cop with me. How dare you! You can't even be honest with me." Um, yeah. Pot meet Kettle. Looking back I guess we both had our reasons for not being honest, but at the time, however unreasonable, I felt …hurt? Betrayed? Duped?

"Any moment, Colonel Hogan will come in here, be real mean, while you tell me not to upset him and you're my friend so I'll open up to you."

At that point the door did open, but not with Hogan, but with Newkirk.

"You're the bad cop?" I blurted out. Well, I'm sure he could be one if he wanted to. He did get pretty nasty to anyone he thought had hurt any of his colleagues in the show. Again, I was unreasonably angry. I mean, I wasn't even important enough for Colonel Hogan to personally come and interrogate me. Little did I know he had his hands full. Full? They were positively overflowing!

"No, darling. Not this time." This sarcastic comment was to me. The nicer toned, "Colonel wants her upstairs," was to Olsen.

We passed the larger open radio room and Hogan and a woman were arguing.

"Colonel Hogan, stop scaring the kids!" the woman demanded.

Hogan looked like he was on the verge of cracking. Spinning away from her, Hogan raised his fist to smack the tunnel wall, and then dropped it abruptly with a sigh that came out more as a whimper. Yep, that headache was really getting to him.

"Listen," he said through gritted teeth, "I am doing what I must to take care of the security of this operation."

"Chaining up little IronAmerica?!" the woman yelled. "She's a dear, sweet girl who's just a bit… exuberant. She'll settle down. And convincing poor Tuttle you meant to kill her? Handcuffing Jake? And hitting Niente Zero? That is not the behavior of an officer and a gentleman."

"An officer and a gentleman like Klink?" Colonel Hogan snapped back.

She glared back coldly. "Yes."

Olsen, looking embarrassed tried to get me up the ladder fast. I couldn't help but turn around, and ask, "Did he really do all those things?" Olsen motioned me to keep moving: a clear case of _nicht gesacht ist ja gemeint_. YIKES!! How did I escape such treatment? Maybe I hadn't been here long enough…yet.

May I just say here that those ladders were not made for anyone really short. I would love to know how LeBeau did it. He was just three inches taller than me, but those steps were really spread. Of course, Le Beau didn't have to worry about skirts.

We finally made it up, although by that time I think I had cause a bit of a traffic jam with the others following. As I said, those steps had a large spread, and I hadn't climbed anything like that since I was a kid and my brothers and sister nicknamed me "The Monkey."

Okay another aside: I was a brat. I used to tell on them, and to retaliate and not get into trouble with Mom and Dad they would just put things out of my reach. I couldn't complain or I would get into trouble for being a tattle tale and my eldest brother and sister wouldn't take me to anywhere fun, so I had to keep my mouth shut and deal. After awhile, I could climb up on almost anything.

In the main room of the barracks some of the men were sitting around and I saw some women. Obviously more time travelers by the way they were dressed. I sat down next to one.

"Excuse me, but did the colonel really hit one of you, threaten you, and handcuff you?" Three women nodded yes. One asked me what had happened to me.

"Um, Olsen made me dance with him."

Now I've corresponded with these women. They are very nice, but let me tell you, one of those nice women has a look that could cause a blizzard in a D.C. summertime.

The Colonel and the woman he was arguing came up. Colonel Hogan threw a piece of paper on the table.

"We have to sing," one of the time travelers said dismally upon reading the paper.

"I don't sing," I replied. It's true. All those years in Teen Theatre, I was a mouther. It really started when I was auditioning for a part in "Once upon a Mattress" my brother heard the director and music coordinator say, "My god! If only she could sing!" Yes, so while I'm good at the comedy, don't expect singing.

"And we don't even know the tune."

"Oh!" one of the young women put in gleefully. "It's to the tune of 'Hello, Mary Lou', and we have to all sing in unison and hold hands. That'll send us back to our correct time."

"Uh huh, sure," Colonel Hogan said shortly. "I'm willing to try anything." Yes, I bet he would by this time!

Halfheartedly, we joined hands and sounding more like cats at midnight with maybe one hound baying at the moon, we tried singing the song. Mid-way through, the barracks' door opened and Schultz barged in, pushing LeBeau against the wall along with the door.

We all looked up and seeing Schultz, we couldn't help ourselves. "Schultz!" and "Schultzies!" abounded. I mean it was the teddy bear himself! He even seemed like the Schultz on TV. Oh it was so nice that something was finally right. He even said, "I know nothing, nothing!"

Unfortunately, when the men finally got him to leave, we could hear Schultz bellowing the lyrics to the Mary Sue song as he marched across the compound. At least it sounded better when he sang it.

Colonel Hogan seeing the singing didn't do anything crumpled the paper and tossed it in the stove.

"We've left clues around town and even with Klink in the camp—honestly I think he's wearing that lip gloss you left, Jessica. I swear he smelled of strawberries when I was just over there." Okay, so Jessica was snogging Klink? KLINK?

"No bites from the Gestapo or anyone else. I think Operation Breadcrumbs might be a dud. So, what's the next suggestion for getting all of you out of here?"

Just then Carter burst into the barracks. Excitedly, he announced, "Colonel, a staff car just drove in full of German scientists and one of them has a mysterious golden device that looks important!"

Could this be our way home? I didn't get a good look at it at the archives, but if so, hallelujah and you can keep the bloody ammunition to yourself!


	26. Hochstetter's Chapter 1

**Interlude—Hochstetter**

**by Hexiva**

There were quite a number of people _Sturmbannführer_ Hochstetter really hated, and he had to admit that he was, at the moment, being spared the company of the worst of them—he glanced around nervously, checking to make sure none of the people around him looked even remotely like Hogan— but near enough to the top of the list were the sort of people who currently surrounded him. They were peering at some sort of medal as if it was the key to the universe.

It had been explained to him that this medal had been found on the corpse of a man wearing curious clothing and hair dyed ion colours that human heads weren't meant to have. The man had died of numerous bullet wounds, apparently during a ceremonial gun-firing at one of _der Führer_'s more fiery speeches. Hochstetter had said _Na und?_ There were enough odd cults running around that disgusting clothing shouldn't have been that surprising. The specialists, in that condescending tone that made Hochstetter hate them more, had explained that the technology they had found on him could not possibly be from Germany. Hochstetter suggested that their knowledge might have been a few centuries out of date, although he didn't put it quite so politely.

"The lettering appears to be in a sort English, although it is far from any dialect our linguists can recognize. Herr Mahnken suggested it might be poorly translated from another language, possibly Chinese."

"Why would anyone put that much work into the engravings on it and not bother to find someone who spoke decent English?" asked Hochstetter, pointing at the detailed pictures of impossibly interweaving hourglasses under a swastika.

The specialist shrugged. "That's only Herr Mahnken's theory. I have a different one--"

All of the scientists shook their heads or muttered something.

"Look, Herzer, you've already explained your theory, and I _told _you: It's impossible, and you pass it on, they will throw you off the project—if you're _lucky!"_

"Do you have a better explanation?" Herzer shot back. "Do you know how much English has changed in the last four hundred years? Exactly _that _much! And the technology! The clothing! His appearance out of nowhere! It all points to time travel!"

"Herzer—" one of the specialist's colleagues started—and stopped, because there was suddenly no question of speaking.

That was what Hochstetter would remember, later: the pervasive, solid silence, the silence that was more of a sound in its own right than an absence of one. The silence that a hole in time makes.

Then a boy appeared on the table, the clank of his feet breaking the silence. Hochstetter stared. He was garishly dressed in jewelry-bedecked clothing that looked as if it had come from the Middle Ages, and held a golden medallion.

_Garish clothing, medallion . . . _Hochstetter grinned widely. It all fit.

"This might be of interest . . ." said the boy in heavily accented German.

"Grab him!" shouted Hochstetter.


	27. Hogan's Chapter 3

**Hogan's Interim Chapter 3**

"Carter. Newkirk," Hogan ordered them near with his tone. He sealed the tunnel entrance behind him, sorely tempted to leave it closed forever and pretend the seven female problems ensconced below didn't exist. No such luck. He had to deal with them one way or the other. Fortunately, his conversation with Linda had crystallized his plan.

"Take photos of the women," Hogan instructed Carter. "Get started on full identity papers for them. And travel papers for two… no, three, Olsen included. Newkirk…" He turned to Newkirk who drew himself almost to attention, expecting an important assignment. "I want you to make a French maid's costume. The sort the maid working for a well-off German family might wear. But," he added after a calculating pause, "just a tiny bit suggestive."

"Blimey," Newkirk muttered.

"Suggestive of what?" Carter asked. Hogan gave him _that look_ and didn't answer. Newkirk knew 'suggestive of what'."

"What size?" Newkirk asked.

Scowling, Hogan said, "Tuttle-sized. We'll need a wardrobe for Linda, too. Even _more_ suggestive."

Hogan closed his office door behind him a bit harder than was truly necessary. His ask-no-questions mood was more than evident to one and all and he couldn't bring himself to even try to hide it.

Pacing his small room, Hogan struggled with himself to banish the annoyances of those… those… women, and to concentrate on solving the problem of them, and the greater danger they represented—Nazis with time travel capabilities. Both of these problems had become more immediate and urgent with the arrival in camp of the Gestapo. And if the Gestapo was in Stalag 13, Hochstetter would not be far away. Hochstetter nearby meant Hogan would be under close scrutiny again, which would limit his actions. He'd have to rely on others, and some of those others… well, 'reliable' was the question.

Problems above. Problems below. Problems not just here and now, but possibly resonating through time.

He'd seen hints of the technology available in the future. These women had brought no weapons, only small personal items, but any technology could be subverted into weaponry—high speed encoded communications methods could be enough to turn the tide of the war, he considered, thinking about the phones they carried. Never mind ray guns. It wouldn't take that much. Just allowing the Nazis to get only a few years worth of research and technology ahead on jet engines and atomic weapons and the Nazis would be in the U.S. demanding an American surrender. Any sufficiently advanced technology… could wallop the Allies and change the course of the war if brought back into Hitler's hands.

Or, it could be more fundamental than that. Maybe the Allies won now, as Hogan was sure they would—something never denied by the women, even as they refused to provide details—but Hogan's grandchildren, or great-grandchildren, might face the Nazi threat again in the future. That thought sickened him as nothing else in this war had. It could not be allowed to happen.

Rubbing his temples, Hogan sat, resting his elbows on his desk. In his future fictional adventures, he'd been told, every problem was solved in a tidy half an hour, with room for laughs. Call it thirty script pages. He smiled softly to himself. Most missions weren't wrapped up quite that quickly and easily but, he had to admit, he had managed to solve most within a week. Mentally he scripted this mission out so far. The most recent of the women had been here just a few days. The first—Jessica—had been here over two months now.

Pushy dame, that one. But she was coping with the situation pretty well, and doing her best to follow his orders (though she clearly preferred _giving_ orders). She'd honed her German and learned to blend in and function. With her blond hair and features she looked German. All that gave her value as an agent. Germans willing to act against their own country, no matter how wrong they may believe the Nazi ideals were, were few and far between. Just look at Klink; no Nazi, but still utterly loyal to Germany. Turning traitor was a hard leap for anyone to make, especially when the danger to anyone deemed disloyal was so high. So, Jessica had a value to his operation though, Hogan had to acknowledge, she was a horrific security risk should she be arrested. She knew too much. They all did.

With the Gestapo arriving in camp, presumably tracking the 'breadcrumb' she had left with Klink, that risk was now a near-certainty. He couldn't let her go back out. He also couldn't keep all those women locked down in the tunnels forever, either.

He rubbed his temples again.

Or had Klink managed to keep his mouth shut? Or even failed to realize the significance of Jessica's 'lip gloss' left with him? Women's cosmetics could be pretty mysterious at times and Klink, for all his pretensions, was largely oblivious to the nuances of women—something Hogan has studied to the master's level and beyond (so why was he having such a hard time with this particular group of women?). Nevertheless, Klink may have only fixated on the way the lip gloss made shiny, sweet-scented lips, and failed to notice the tube was made of highly refined plastics with English writing and a date (Expiration date—why would such a thing expire? He made a mental note to ask about that) that was years into the next century… the next _millennium_.

Running the conversations Klink had with the Gestapo agents, and the scientists, overheard via the coffeepot through his mind, Hogan concluded it was possible Klink hadn't realized the significance of the item; hadn't shown it to the Gestapo. He only fixated on the fact that an attractive woman actually liked him. And she did. Like Klink. Genuinely. And just as genuinely disliked Hogan. Nazis or no Nazis, with women reacting to him like this bunch did, the future looked like a bleak and illogical place. At least he and Linda got along. Though the way she studied him sometimes… Hogan shook himself.

So, if Jessica hadn't been outright compromised, Hogan could let her go back out to Hammelburg and continue the efforts to find the time travel lab. If she could use her connection with Klink to reach the scientists…

She needed help. Linda, the actress, would go out with Jessica in the high class prostitute guise.

And Tuttle. LeBeau endorsed her French, though lamented over the dreadful Canadian accent to it. That probably wouldn't matter. The Germans had absolutely no ear for French. Good luck to Jessica and Linda keeping that little fireball contained and on track. Better their problem than his.

Those were the three with the best shot of operating openly in Germany. The woman called Jake… he'd recognized her military reaction at once. It wasn't what he expected from a woman, though many women served now with courage and distinction. She had more of a male-military air to her. Good. Though she lacked the language skills he wished she had, the experience and discipline would let her work with the scanty local underground. It would do them good to have an Allied agent with them, too. She'd go out in the dog truck with Schnitzer tonight.

IronAmerica… the youngest and most erratic of the lot. Jessica called her a "dear, sweet girl," and she probably was. But still young and flighty. She also tended to blurt out things she shouldn't and talk too much. No, like it or not, he'd have to keep her here where she could be monitored. He couldn't keep her in the tunnels forever, so she'd need a chaperon. Several chaperons.

That left Niente Zero and Cat. What Hogan needed was a liaison in London who could interact with him and his men via radio without every detail having to be explained. Hogan's reports to London on this time travel problem has been scanty to non-existent so far. It all just defied explanation with the brief, coded means he had at his disposal. Having those two—one from the Commonwealth, the other an American—would give him an ideal combination to explain and set up things on that end. And it would get them out of the tunnels. He'd send Olsen with them, as escort. Hogan had two reasons for that. He wanted Olsen out of peril, should Jessica, Linda, and Tuttle be compromised. Olsen was too valuable to risk losing. Olsen would also give credence to Niente's and Cat's story, verifying that Hogan was behind both the mission, and the bizarre tale.

Not that London would ever doubt the 'bizarre' part where Hogan was concerned.

You know, Hogan thought, leaning back, his headache vanished, that television show of theirs had it right. Bold. Audacious. Dazzlingly brilliant. Yes, sir… he'd make a fabulous leading man!

_Cut. Print. _

Hogan smiled brightly for the non-existent cameras.


	28. Carter and Newkirk's Chapter 1

**Carter and Newkirk Confer About A Worrisome Problem**

**by 96 Hubbles**

Carter meandered into the room where Newkirk was working on a French maid's uniform. "Newkirk?"

"Yeah?" Newkirk mumbled distractedly around a needle stuck in his mouth. He was ripping some bad stitching out. _Bloody light down here… one of those silly birds from the future couldn't have brought back some fancy light bulbs with her?_

"You got a minute?"

"Aren't you supposed to be taking photographs for our visiting ladies contingent?"

"Yeah, but nobody's come down yet. Well, except for that young one who kiss-"

Newkirk whipped the needle out of his mouth and pointed it at his friend. "Don't you bloody say it! And you can wipe that flipping smirk off your face while you're at it!"

"Touchy, touchy," Carter said while he turned over a spare crate and sat down. He leaned over. "Newkirk, do you think _we're _on this show Miss Linda and Miss… I forget her real name…you know, Jessica, the one they were telling the Colonel about?

"I don't know Carter. Whatcha wanna know that for?" Newkirk asked, not really caring.

Carter straightened up on his seat. "No special reason," he said too quickly. "I'm just curious, is all."

Newkirk smiled to himself and put down his sewing. After all these months of working together, he could tell when Carter was hiding something. Learning to read Carter, in fact, had only required about a day and half. "What's the matter Carter? 'Fraid you'll 'ave been left out and won't have no pretty birds begging for your autograph?"

"No!" Carter said emphatically, which surprised Newkirk. However the Englishman smiled again as he watched this idea cross his friend's face. He suddenly had no doubt that fame and pretty girls were occurring to Carter for the first time.

"Well," Carter started to fidget, "it's only that I'm not sure I want to be on this…uh, _television_ show," he said, after needing a second to remember the word.

"Why ever not? I should think it'd be only fair if we were all on it too." Obviously the Colonel was going to be on it, Newkirk considered. Even if their unexpected visitors hadn't told them such, Newkirk knew how it went. Mavis had written him only last week about the latest American war movie she'd been to with the bloke she'd been seeing. _Blimey, Peter, it would've made you sick. You'd think they were winning the whole thing by themselves, _she'd written.

Newkirk felt resentful all of sudden. The Colonel was the only important one. Hollywood probably wouldn't worry itself about putting two foreigners in, so that'd be him and Lebeau out. Kinch was a Negro; from some of the things Carter had told him it was easy to figure they'd drop his part. _Or make it out like he was a white man_, Newkirk thought ruefully. Carter now, they might put Carter in. If for nothing more than to give the leading man someone to save or buck up when the scene called for inspiring words. Or maybe they'd consider him too inconsequential and use some anonymous bloke who'd get killed in the end.

"Yeah, I guess so," Carter replied. "But Newkirk, how do we know what they're going to do to us?"

"Whatcha mean?" Newkirk asked, his mind turning to his own pick pocketing skills and how his past might be exaggerated. _Bloody hell_, he thought, _I was hoping everyone would be forgetting about that._

"They could make up whatever they wanted, Newkirk!" Carter leaned in again and whispered worriedly, "Do you know what some of these girls are writing about us?"

"No," Newkirk said. His face grew wary; he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

"Tuttle was telling me…" Newkirk raised an eyebrow at Carter's hesitation. "Tuttle said," Carter continued even more softly, "that there's a story where we…well, where we…_kiss!_"

Newkirk burst off laughing. "Bloody hell, Carter! Is that what's got you worried?"

"Newkirk! There's someone out there in the future making up lies about us! Don't you _care?_"

Truth be told, he did care. The idea of a bunch of silly girls with nothing better to do but make up stories while using his good name to do it, did most certainly not sit well with him. But this? He laughed again, remembering the shocked and offended look on his friend's face when he'd hissed out the word "kiss". Newkirk slapped the other man on the knee. "Carter, Carter, Carter. She's playing you for a fool, mate!"

"But - "

"Nice ladies don't read that sort of thing, you silly berk! Let alone write it. That Tuttle's just pulling your leg, mate."

"Gee, Newkirk, I don't know…"

"Trust me Andrew. That one's got a mischievous streak and no mistake. She's just having you on."

Carter looked at him a little sideways, still unsure.

"Honestly Carter, the things you fall for. No one in their right mind is going to believe something like that," Newkirk chuckled. "Now you'd best be back to your lab to take those pictures like the guv'nor asked."

Carter stood up but didn't go to leave. "You really think so?"

"I'd stake me life on it! Now go, before someone drops an author on you."

Carter's eyes widened, remembering what had happened to Lebeau. His head shot upwards, the immediate result of which was that he walked right into the door frame.

Newkirk shook his head. "Shouldn't 'ave bloody said anything."

He picked up his sewing again. "Hunh, little girls and grown ladies writing about men kissing…"


	29. Niente Zero Part 4

**Niente Zero-4**

London

London. I was going to London.

I'd said I wanted to, right? But still. I wasn't going to London to meet Granny and warn her about what a low down sonofabitch my grandfather would turn out to be - I mean, time travel paradoxes aside, this was a mission. We had some saving the free world to do. The flip side was, I also couldn't use his position of minor importance in London society to open any doors. Or maybe I could. We'd see.

I'd been comfortably darning socks and humming show tunes, and I was beginning to lose track of the time, what day it was, everything, what with never seeing the sun, so I'm not sure how long I'd been in the camp, when Carter had informed me that Colonel Hogan wanted to see me. I really hadn't seen the Colonel much, certainly not alone, since my first unfortunate landing on Le Beau.

Kinchloe was with the Colonel in his quarters/office when Carter showed me in. He gave me what I can only describe as a dubious glance before leaving, closing the door behind him.

"Sit down, Niente." Hogan butchered my screenname. Aw, heck, everyone does. It's got a lovely Italian lilt. I had considered it a Very Bad Idea to go around announcing that the name I went by was Italian for "nothing." Hello, I'm not an Axis spy, honestly. So I put up with him calling me "Nenty." The alternative was probably giving up my real name. Something told me that was a bad idea. Am I digressing again? Drat.

I sat, smoothing my skirt under me nervously. I'd been warned that the bottom bunk creaked and wasn't so comfortable, but it was better than standing. I had done a pretty good job at staying in the background and I wasn't sure that being summoned boded well for my continued lack of heroics.

Hogan smiled. That was my first real glimpse of the 100-watt knock 'em dead charm. Of course. He could turn it on and off like a light switch. But that didn't make me immune. I found myself smiling back, though about what I didn't know.

"Now, Nenty, we've all appreciated your efforts." He stretched out his foot. "My feet haven't been this comfortable in years. But I'm afraid I've got a more serious job for you to do."

Ulp. Yup... summoned not bode well. Summoned bode bad. Summoned bode Niente running around out where people might SHOOT at me.

"You love your country, right?" Hogan asked. My lips twitched slightly. I have two countries, his and mine, and as a matter of fact, I love them both. But outright appeals to my patriotism have never been worth much.

"I love abstract notions like freedom, and justice, and peace." I blurted. Great. Frickin' hippy. Well, frickin'... conchie, I guess.

Hogan shrugged. His eyes were sharp on me. "You'll do what you have to, to help our side win, though?"

It was stated as a question, but he had already judged me and decided he knew the answer. I knew this, because I was still alive, and he trusted me far enough to be sending me on some sort of job.

"I will." I said. Ulp. Yeah. Lily-livered, yellow bellied, right up until someone tells me they need me, and then what do I do? Practically volunteer. Not like Linda or Jessica, or Tuttle. They... seemed completely willing to throw themselves into the cause from the start. I felt myself wanting in character compared to them. Which meant I was beginning to THINK like I belonged in the War era, and that couldn't be good. Thinking like a hero could get me killed. And maybe anyone else who was counting on me. But - those sharp eyes of his on me - you knew if someone like that was counting on you, you'd do anything rather than let him down.

Augh.

Dash it all.

Hogan stood up. The smile played on his lips again. "You said you needed to get to London. Well, I need people who understand what's going on here, in London. It's unfortunate that you're not quite English-"

I interrupted "But at this exact point in history, my nationality may in fact technically be British, so it ought to be good enough."

"Right." Hogan said. "So, here's the plan."

Is it wrong that I actually felt flattered that he was laying out the whole plan for me?

I was certainly relieved to hear that I'd be travelling with one of the other writers. Catalyna seemed, well, nice. Even if she did get to dance with Olsen, when all I got was a slap in the face. Sheesh, I hoped she wouldn't hold my death-glare against me.


	30. Hochstetter's Chapter 2

**Interlude—Hochstetter's Chapter 2**

**by Hexiva**

"Entschuldigung," said the boy stepping down from the table with the calm politeness of one who isn't sure he believes what's happening. "Why, exactly, am I here, Herr—?"

"Hochstetter," the Gestapo officer supplied automatically, standing up in a hurry. Despite his shout, none of his men had moved. Shock, he supposed.

The boy's eyebrows shot up in an expression of amusement. "Really? Now that's just plain strange."

_My name amuses you, eh? _Hochstetter bristled, and deliberately answered in the informal. "What is so funny? You are about to be _executed_ for entry to a restricted area, child!"

"Hardly, you're much too interested in that golden watch over there to kill me just yet . . . and why is we speaking German? I don't even know German."

Hochstetter frowned; the boy had been speaking nearly perfect German since his arrival. He tried to ignore the truth of the first statement. "You seem to be speaking German well enough at the moment, child. What language do you claim to generally speak?"

The boy crossed his arms and smirked. The gesture, which reminded Hochstetter worryingly of Hogan, seemed to jerk his men out of their shock. He heard the safeties click off of several different triggers.

"As if you don't know, Major. You were the one messing with the watch when I appeared. If you must know, I speak typically English, most of the world does when you summoned me from."

Hochstetter shot a furious look at the watching specialists. _Summoned? _

"How exactly did you get that thing anyway?" the boy continued. "It's highly illegal."

The Gestapo major brightened. If this boy knew something about the medal. . . "Really? What does it do, Herr—?"

"Byakugan."

Hochstetter paused to look at the boy's European features. "Byakugan . . . It sounds Japanese. That's _obviously _not your name. Men!" He bared his teeth in cruel amusement as Byakugan backed up.

"_Halt, halt!"_ The boy held up his hands. "I admit it probably wasn't a good idea to give you my code name, but my real name is English, which I don't seem to be speaking very well right now."

"It's not important. Get back to the watch. What does it do?"

"I'm not sure it would help you much. _Die Streberin__—" _Hochstetter started to grin at the insult—"over there won't be able to make another for you without a minimum of 100 years of solid advancements. Do you want the technical explanation or the 'civilian' version?" The grin vanished before it began. He _hated _scientists.

"Civilian, before I hand you over to the SD for interrogation . . . They are much less understanding than I am." The threat was empty— he intended to get the credit for himself— but he wanted to make Byakugan fear him.

"Ok, to put it simply: That thing right there is a personal teleport module that has been modified extensively to work on time rather than space. Problem is it 'smells' broken. You didn't do anything weird to it did you?"

_If they did, someone is going to spend the rest of his life wishing he was dead. _Hochstetter looked at the scientists, who had managed to back away from him without ever leaving their chairs. He noticed that Herzer's smug look—Byakugan was vindicating his theories— didn't entirely fade in fear. "Why do you want to know?"

"No reason, it just smells different from the corresponding one in my time. That usually means it's been tampered with . . . You haven't tried to take it apart yet, have you?"

"We did try to open it up, but we didn't break it . . . yet," Herzer said, addressing the English boy as an equal. His voice faded into a mutter as he realized that Hochstetter was glaring daggers at him.

"Can I have a look at it?" Byakugan asked.

Hochstetter considered. This boy seemed, in a lot of ways, to be completely insane. Yet . . . What if Herzer was right?

"You hold it for our visitor, and don't let him touch it!" he snapped, pointing to one of the scientists.

"Was that mark on the face before _die Streberin_ got their hands on it?" Byakugan said, after examining it. He indicated the swastika on the face.

Hochstetter saw Mahnken's expression when the boy said that, and he knew who did it.

"Arrest him," he said to the guards, and watched as Mahnken was dragged off.

The sad thing was, Hochstetter knew why Mahnken had had the swastika engraved on it. He had met people like Mahnken before, quite often. They were the ones who secretly yearned for the Kaiser's time, and, in an effort to fit in despite that, went to ridiculous lengths to prove that they were loyal National Socialists.

Hochstetter shook off the pity. People like that were only dead weights on this mission.

"Wait," said Byakugan, "I remember you from some old movies. If you existed, Major, then Hogan must be in Stalag 13, right?"

Hochstetter scowled. _Stalag 13 . . . Why does it always have to be Stalag 13?_

"What do you know about Hogan?" he said sharply.

"You died four days after executing him for trading with the underground," said Byakugan bluntly. "Besides I thought it'd be cool to meet the man seeing as that's where the watch seems to be dumping things."

_This boy still doesn't realize how much trouble he's in, _thought Hochstetter before Byakugan's second statement hit home. (_You died . . . You died . . . You died . . .)_

Hochstetter's sight blurred before him as he leapt forward.

He didn't really remember trying to strangle Byakugan. (_You died . . .) _He didn't remember Herzer pulling him off. _(You DIED!) _Even his memory of ordering his men to shove Byakugan in the cruelly cramped trunk of a staff car was blurred. (_You died—died—died—you're dead—)_

He sat down at a table, twisting his gloves in both hands. "He didn't say when I was going to die. Maybe I can't get rid of Hogan for years— maybe it doesn't happen that soon—"

"I don't think that's how it's going to happen," said Herzer. Hochstetter looked up. He hadn't realized Herzer had come to stand next to him.

"How would _you_ know?" Hochstetter demanded, his harsh tone tinged with desperation. "No one knows what will happen in the future!"

"What about him?" Herzer gestured towards Byakugan's unconscious body being loaded into the staffcar. "He's from the future. And he said most people where he comes from speak English . . ."  
Hochstetter looked at him in shock. "You can't think—"

"Didn't you wonder? Byakugan seems to approve of Hogan— who you've said is an officer of the U.S. Army. He was horrified at the sight of Mahnken's swastika. And everyone in the future speaks English. What happens, in the next years? Do we win? What would Byakugan say if we asked him, I wonder?"

"That can't be right!" Hochstetter protested.

"Can't it? The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry, Herr Major."

"_Sturmbannführer, _the staff car is ready!" called one of the guards, distracting them.

Hochstetter quickly stood and hurried away, getting in the staff car. As his eyes watched Hammelburg's swastika adorned streets fly past, his mind saw American soldiers in the streets and the American flag flying over every building.

_He must be wrong, _he thought. _Please, God, let him be wrong._

The odd golden object (Byakugan had called it a watch, but to Hochstetter it looked like a medal) sat in a box in the car next to Herzer and one of his colleagues as they parked in Stalag 13. Hochstetter was not at all sure just how Herzer had talked him into bringing him along. He was still feeling odd, having trouble forgetting the picture of the future that Herzer and Byakugan had painted.

Hochstetter reached towards the object, and was about to pick it up when Herzer grabbed his wrist.

"Don't touch it!" the scientist said sharply.

"Why not? Let go of me!"

Herzer and the other specialist exchanged looks. "There have been . . . accidents," said Herzer's companion, whose name Hochstetter neither knew nor cared about.

"People have disappeared after touching it," Herzer added.

"Disappeared? I have not heard anything about such a plan."

"No, no, disappeared into thin air. Vanished. Gone 'poof'. Not disappeared into the _Nacht und Nebel,_" Herzer clarified, lowering his voice slightly as a group of prisoners walked curiously closer.

"What? Where to?"

"_Äh_ . . .Probably wherever Byakugan came from. We're not sure," Herzer's companion said.

"The future," suggested Herzer avidly.

The other scientist looked askance at him.

"What? Everything points in that direction! The boy even _said _it!"

"There's no proof of it! The boy could just be insane!"

"Then how did he appear out of midair?"

"How would I know?"

"You seem to be quite sure of a lot of other things!"

Hochstetter leaned back, grinning. _Ah . . . Dissent in the ranks. _"If you two are quite finished," he growled, "The trunk is airtight and I don't want the prisoner to die before I get my answers. "

They hurriedly stood up, climbing out of the car. Hochstetter saw an odd expression on Herzer's face. He assumed it was annoyance at the interruption.

When Hochstetetter, holding the box carefully in one hand, opened the trunk, Byakugan opened his eyes and blinked blearily at the Nazi officer, who pushed him out of the trunk. Byakugan stumbled, and steadied himself on the car. By the time he was standing upright, Hochstetter had his sidearm pointed at him.

The boy held his hands up. "No need to be hasty!" he said, trying to avoid the barrel of the gun.

Hochstetter gestured towards Klink's office. "Go that way."

Hogan was not in the outer office, which Hochstetter was glad of. It often seemed that Hogan _lived _in Klink's office.

"Go away, Hogan!" said Klink without looking up as Hochstetter, Byakugan, and the two scientists stepped in.

"I am not Hogan," said Hochstetter, thinking, _Thank God for that! _

Klnk leapt up. "Oh, Major Hochstetter!" he sang. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was you! Of course I can't tell _you _to go away!"

"No, you can't. Now go get Hogan. I have someone here I want him to meet."

It shouldn't have surprised Hochstetter when Hogan stepped in. "Sorry, sir, I didn't realize you had company!" he said in English.

"No, no," Hochstetter said, groping for the right words. "Come in. Someone . . ." He swore in German and then continued: "Someone for you to meet." He pointed to Byakugan.

Hogan looked him up and down. "Aren't you a bit _young_ to be in the Gestapo?"

"He is not Gestapo," Hochstetter said, "He is your side. Speaks English."

"So? So do you. Well . . . Sort of."

"_I _do not have a American . . . accent."

"That's for sure!" commented Hogan.

"Do you know this boy?"

Hogan shook his head. "No, I've never seen him before. What is he wearing?" Suddenly he frowned. It was a fleeting, but obvious expression of recognition. Hochstetter pounced on it.

"I don't know. You do."

"How in the world would I know what _that _clothing is?"

"He knows you."

"Really? How?"

Hogan and Hochstetter both turned expectantly to Byakugan.


	31. Iron America Part 4

**IronAmerica-4**

Let me recap a few things that have happened to me over the past, I dunno, week or so. I have kissed Peter Newkirk, threatened Colonel Hogan, been chained up in a tunnel, given Kinch a heart-attack, and sang an extremely weird song. By my suggestion, by the way. I personally selected the tune as petty revenge. I hate that song. So, what's up next? Let's see…

Hmm. Okay, I've now officially pissed off Hogan. I found my lucky jacket, and my mid-term book report, and my camera, and my school id.

Note to self: Never call an air force colonel a thief. They don't like it, and take their retaliation a bit to far.

Still… I guess I did deserve it a bit. Snooping around in an officers quarters is a big no-no. But I was bored, and no one was watching the tunnel entrance, and I hate tunnels…. Okay, definitely not a convincing argument.

"Colonel Hogan, I gave you my word that I wouldn't do anything to compromise your operation. However, I can't help you when you compromise yourself." He looks at me, and I see a semi-murderous gleam in his eye. He won't kill me. I think. I hope.

"Colonel, I do not like it when people steal my things. You, of all people, should know how the military deals with thieves. Sir. Perhaps you know about that little thing called the court martial clause?" Brownie points to me for looking up that little nugget of information. I just love the UCMJ. And they say turnabout is fair play.

I gesture at my assembled items, most importantly my book report. "Sir, I know that you take your job seriously, and this is a WAG, but are you possibly retaliating for something?" What can I say? I'm an impulsive person.

Oops. Bad question. Why can I never keep my mouth shut? Thankfully, he didn't get the Marine/future-speak. WAG stands for Wild-Ass Guess. If he knew, he wouldn't be giving me a semi-blank look. "My dad doesn't condone thievery, and I don't either. So with all due respect, I demand that you return my things." I swear that I'll never see day-light again from the looks he's giving me. And after GS vouched for me… I'm just jinxed aren't I? Why am I so jinxed? Is it a genetic thing?

Hogan picks up my school id and camera, handing them back to me. I check in the camera, and see that the film is gone. Gee, I wonder where that went… I motion towards the jacket and book report, a "well? What's it gonna take?" look on my face.

He hands it back, looking as though he's touching something rotten. Um, maybe the fact that it's a beautiful gray-blue wool jacket that hasn't been washed in about three days? Or the fact that it looks suspiciously like a Luftwaffe jacket? Most likely the latter. Still, it's a nice, antique jacket that has seen me through an entire school year.

"Anything else sir, or shall I return to the tunnels?" I'd ask for my report, but that'd be pushing it. Thankfully, after the first page, it all switches to a code I picked up somewhere. It's only the handwritten copy, after all. He nods, and I walk out of his office, wondering if I can snag a shower. It is truly amazing what they have down there. Especially in the non-claustrophobia inducing tunnels. I'm babbling again. Cut, print, check the gate, moving on.

* * *

After taking a shower, slapping and/or decking several men who were giving me the "look", and getting some clean(er) clothes, I went exploring. I have to say, however, that the show didn't do them justice. The tunnels, well, I could drive the Tumbler through them with room to spare.

I'm gonna find something to do, to keep from going nuts. This is worse than some girl scout trips I've been on. Two hours, trapped in a truck, filled with harpies and/or banshees. Yeah, it's scarier than Hogan. I am claustrophobic, and the tunnels, while the size of a subway tunnel, are still making me a bit, well, nutty.

I happen upon Peter and Carter having a conversation, and stop to listen. I stuff my fist into my mouth to keep from laughing at the subject matter. Carter worried about not being on the show? As if! He's probably one of the funnier characters. I stop trying to choke myself so I can hear the rest of the conversation. The two of them kissing? Which one was… Oh yeah! Missie DuCaine's story _Cigarette Kisses_. That was funny. Completely and totally funny, but mildly disturbing. I think I laughed aloud at that, because the conversation stopped.

I freeze again, and realize that the conversation has stopped. Newkirk tells Carter to look out for falling authors, and I hug the wall tighter. Carter runs into the doorframe, and passes me by without so much as a look. After I'm sure he's gone, I enter the room.

"Hiya Peter. Ya know, you're a lot cuter than Richard Dawson." He looks up in surprise, and nearly swallows his mouthful of pins. I elaborate. "In the show. Mr. Dawson doesn't do you justice. Course, Mr. Dixon was one of my favorites." I take a seat across from him, a large grin in place.

"Who's Dixon?" Peter says around his pins. I smirk. "Mr. Dixon is, or was, an incredibly awesome African-American actor." A paradox, a paradox, a most peculiar paradox. I need to keep my mouth shut, but, I might as well do a complete job of digging myself in. I continue. "He played Kinch." I give him a slight look over the tops of my accursed glasses. I need to put my contacts in.

Peter looks, well, surprised. Never thought Hollywood would take on an African American actor? Ha. "Don't look so surprised. I'm being straight up." Peter really looks like he's going to burst a blood vessel now. Huh. Why is it that I have this effect on guys? Especially the ones that I like? I should stop hanging around the sites for slang in the future. Umm, never mind.

"Umm, are you okay Peter?" He nods, and I sigh in relief. I turn my attention to what he's working on, and bite my lip to keep from laughing. It looks like something out of Sailor Moon, or Fruba. "Trying out for an anime convention?" Sadly, he doesn't get the joke. My attempt at humor is wasted. Sigh.

"So, who's the maid costume for?" He straightens up, removes the pins from his mouth (thank God), and looks me square in the face. "It's for that woman, Tuttle." Ah. Bring on the comic-con, people, because this could give the Japanese a run for their money.

"You know, I've never though I'd see the day where a man could sew something competently. Hold still, and keep that pose." Newkirk has almost one minute to get scared. I dig out my cell phone, and snap a picture. "This'll be great on my Yahoo! Account."

Peter buries his head in his hands, mumbling, or perhaps whimpering, about insane, pushy dames from the future.

"Peter tan apesadumbrado, más querido." I have no clue where the Spanish came from. I think it was something along the lines of "So sorry, dearest Peter."

Now it's my turn to have a few seconds to look scared. I think that the Spanish had sided with the Nazis during World War Two. Time to explain myself, in English. "I take Spanish in school. I also take a bit of Chinese." Random blurbs are going to kill me someday.

Before Peter has a chance to explain, my nemesis come in. Colonel Hogan. Insert groan here. He, being Colonel Hogan, has an "I'm-going-to-eat-you-alive" grin in place. This does not bode well.

"Miss, ah, IronAmerica, I have several things to discuss with you." His tone makes it clear that it's not going to be a discussion. He probably realizes that this is making me uncomfortable, and he's enjoying it. Rotten bastard. "Newkirk, out." Peter leaves, and I watch him go with a feeling of trepidation.

"Okay, shoot." My phrase makes him raise an eyebrow, and I can almost see that he's considering taking me literally. "Ah hell. Not literally. It means, 'okay, what's going on?', not shoot shoot."

"First, your report, if you can call it that." He hands me a black notebook, and I can see that he's rifled through it extensively. As if he could get anything. "Secondly, the way that you are going to be operating around here." Here it comes. The imminent news of my demise.

"You will have three chaperones, or more." Crap. "They will be making sure that you don't do anything. Like contact Klink or our Gestapo." Well duh. "You are going to be posing as a new POW. The name that you use is up to you, but my men will have the final say about what goes on your papers." Gee, what a great guy. "And just in case of any, ah, mishaps, they'll be authorized to shoot you." Oh hell. I hate him. It's official.

"Roger that, sir. Uh, just one question." He makes a go-on gesture. "Do I have to be in the army air corps? I'd prefer to be a Marine. I know how a Marine is expected to act, and I've never been on a B-17, or any other of your aircraft. And being a Marine means that I'm not expected to know anything about aircraft." My question, or lack there of, makes him pause for a moment. He finally makes a decision. "If I can convince Klink to keep you here, than yes."

I stand up, snapping to attention. "Thank you sir. I'll do the best that I can, Colonel." I rip out a parade ground salute, and receive one from Colonel Hogan. Thank you dad, for letting me watch all of those strange Marine movies.

* * *

"Colonel Hogan, may I present corporal Rhys Whitis, of the United States Marine Corp." I step out as Peter introduces me, feeling slightly self-conscious. I had chosen to become a member of the Marine Corp paratroopers, because that would provide me with the best cover. I hoped. And my dad said that they were completely psychotic, not unlike 2008's Recon Marines.

It had taken longer than anyone expected to turn me into Rhys. This was due to the fact that I refused to cut my hair. Having long hair, extremely long hair, is pretty much my only vanity. Finally, out of exasperation, the barber had several very strong men hold me down while he went and cut all, or most of, my hair off. I am going to be so glad to go home, so I can re-grow my hair.

However, Colonel Hogan seems to approve, and walks around me, looking for anything that may be wrong. Thankfully, he finds nothing wrong. Now it's time for insertion.

I'm going to kill Hogan. I will kill him, and screw the consequences! The Gestapo are not nice. I have been kicked in the stomach, and the shins, and various other painful spots. I'm pretty sure that if I hadn't decided to wear my contacts, that my super expensive glasses would have been shattered.

I have been hauled into Stalag 13 by a local Gestapo patrol, and Klink isn't looking too happy. He's got to guard the gold watch thingy, there's a high security prisoner here, and now he's got to deal with me. And, inevitably, Colonel Hogan.

Right on cue. "Kommandant, I-" Hogan pauses, pretending to be shocked "-Kommandant, why wasn't I informed of the new arrival? According to the Geneva Convention, I have to be informed."

That just strikes me as hilarious. It is so like the TV-show Hogan, that it's almost scary. Colonel Hogan turns to me, and says "Name, rank and serial number only. That's all they can ask for." I nod, clamping my lips together. An irate Klink yells at Hogan to leave. Hogan does, swiping a cigar on the way.

After Hogan is gone, Kommandant Klink turns to me. I have a few seconds to be afraid. But GS said he was an officer and a gentleman, so he couldn't be that bad. Maybe.

"So." Uh-oh. "You are one of the Teufelhunden." Teufelhunden is German for "Devil Dogs", and the term is left over from World War One, in reference to the Marine Corp.

"Yes sir, if you are referring to the Marine Corp." I say, slipping into what I have dubbed Marine-mode.

Klink picks up a form, and I see that it's a "capture card." The capture card is what newly captured POWs fill out, so that family's and the military know what's happened. I fill it in, using what I hope is semi-legible hand writing. I've always had what my family refers to as "doctor's short hand", which is nearly impossible to read.

Obviously, it's fairly illegible, because Klink is staring at it in confusion. He looks at me, and I swallow nervously. "Young man, I can't read this." Yup, just another thing that I'm jinxed with. Illegible handwriting.

"Whitis, Rhys, corporal, USMC. Serial number 1261993." I take pity on Klink, after having forced him to read my writing. He nods, and erases everything that I had written, and rewrites it. Wow.

He summons Shultz, who does a double take at seeing me. He remembers me from the poker game, apparently. He frowns, shaking his head. I can almost hear him thinking "I know nussing, nussing!" It's time for my daily fan girl SQUEE moment. Oy vey.

I am escorted to the cooler, which isn't a big surprise. Most of the books I read, and some fanfics, say that new arrivals are put into the cooler for about a week, before being assigned to a barracks. I have no idea why, that's just the way it is. On my way out, I see Hochstetter. I swear internally. This is not good.

Hochstetter puts out his arm, and stops me. He looks at me, and I bite my lip. He snarls an order to one of his men, and I feel a bit of a sinking feeling. Please oh please don't let me be taken away by the Gestapo. I look at Colonel Hogan pleadingly, and he's also frowning. This can't be good.


	32. Byakugan Part 2

**Byakugan789-2**

**Arrival, interrogation and isolation**

The next thing I knew, the trunk was opening and we were in front of Klink's office. In the distance I heard Carter's voice. I grimaced, 'figures. I guess I'm here though' I thought as I was dragged out of the trunk, 'and there's the watch. Here went nothing'.

As I started to stand I held up my hands. "No need to be hasty!" I chuckled nervously eyeing the gun and remembering how I had 'lost consciousness'.

Hochstetter gestured towards Klink's office. "Go that way."

Where was Hogan? I know I heard Carter's babbling. I grimaced and rubbed my neck. Hochstetter was pleased about something. And where was Hogan? The show made it seem as if Hogan _lived _in Klink's office.

"Go away, Hogan!" said Klink, without looking up as me, Hochstetter, and the two scientists stepped in.

"I am not Hogan," Hochstetter growled. He was clearly agitated. I thought back to just before I had 'fallen asleep'. _Oh shit!_ I told him he died. That must have gone over well while I was out.

Klink leapt up. "Oh, Major Hochstetter!" he sang. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was you! Of course I can't tell _you _to go away!"

"No, you can't. Now go get Hogan. I have someone here I want him to meet."

Of course Hogan chose that moment to appear, his head part way through the door. It shouldn't have surprised Hochstetter when Hogan stepped in. "Sorry, sir, I didn't realize you had company!" he said in English.

"No, no," Hochstetter said, groping for the right words. "Come in. Someone . . ." He swore in German and then continued: "Someone for you to meet." The troll pointed his finger at me.

Hogan looked me up and down, his eyebrow quirking. "Aren't you a bit _young_ to be in the Gestapo?" I glared at him in disgust.

"He is not Gestapo," Hochstetter said, "He is your side. Speaks English."

"So? So do you. Well . . . Sort of," he quipped.

"_I _do not have a American . . . accent," the major growled.

"That's for sure!" Hogan shot back. He seemed to enjoy this. 'Man, this is starting to get surreal' I thought.

"Do you know this boy?"

Hogan shook his head. "No, I've never seen him before. What is he wearing?" Looking at my face he suddenly frowned. While fleeting, it was obvious by his expression he recognized me. The little troll pounced on it.

"I don't know. You do?" his grin slowly beginning to appear.

"How in the world would I know what _that _clothing is?"

"He knows you."

"Really? How?"

Hogan and Hochstetter both turned expectantly to me.

I cringed under the sudden scrutiny of not one but three unfriendly parties. Klink was laughable at best but the other two. Hogan was much how I had expected him to be, but there was something…cold feeling as he looked into my eyes.

'Well hell' I grinned suddenly 'I'm going to die anyways! Let's go out with a bang!' "It's nothing much" I said cheekily, "some friends were researching the second Great German War and your names" I pointed at both Hogan and Hochstetter "came up every now and then. Problem was after a rather curious transmission they started disappearing and reports of German scientists appearing in nut houses started appearing in newspaper files from the late 1870's. The rest of it the major should know, I popped up on his desk shortly after finding that."

Hogan looked at me in consternation.

"And your code name is…?" Hogan murmured quietly.

"What did you say to the prisoner" Hochstetter barked, apparently he did not like being out of the loop anywhere. Especially, I considered, after what I told him.

"He asked me what I was called" I said speaking a bit louder. Turning back to Hogan I said three words that obviously made him uncomfortable "Byakugan,.. GSJessica, 0876707." Hochstetter glared at the two of us.

"What does he mean" Hochstetter snapped "what is this G S Jessica? What does Hogan know?"

"I have no idea," the man said slowly looking directly at me.

"Unfriendly," I muttered cringing. I really didn't like the look he was giving me. "May I go to the cooler now? Please? You all have better things to do and without the watch I'm not much use to you. You have a treasure hunt to get to, Major, Klink has paperwork, and Hogan has some more escape tunnels to dig and a poker game with the guards to study for. Let's go before I die of boredom."

Hochstetter sneers at me and Hogan looks more icily curious but they do decide to do as I asked, so what the hell.

Before Hogan is completely out of the door he turns to me and says in a queerly neutral tone "Judging by your…attire, I'd guess you're a civilian but on the off chance I'm wrong name, rank and serial number only." He gives me a chilling look. "Understand?" I nod.

Hochstetter turns to his adjutant that is behind him to his left. "Unload the staff cars and set up base, as the prisoner mentioned we have a treasure hunt to get to." The man leaves and Hochstetter turns to his right side lackey. "Keep an eye on the prisoner, once Klink has him filed place him in the cooler under 24 hour surveillance. I want a full report of his actions and words every shift. I shall be in to see him every so often. Dismissed." Glaring at me venomously, the major walks out of the office as well.

Klink sits down at his desk and sighs. He's been trying to get into the conversation the entire time and we've been stonewalling him. Poor man, Snort, they were always so rough on him in the show. I wonder if it was the same here in this 'reality'. He probably didn't even notice another one of his cigars was missing.

He pulls out a form with a lot of words and boxes and starts talking. He explains that it is a prisoner registration form and tells me what each of the boxes needs. He seems upset as I ignore half of the boxes but that could just be steam from a few minutes before. Hmm.

Handing back the form he looks at me oddly. Heh, maybe it's the clothes. "So, your name is Byakugan, your rank is Chuunin, and your serial number is 0876707. You are aware that you are European, or at least American, and that the Japanese military do not have a rank called Chuunin?" I grin as he gives me the 'crazy person' look.

"Yes, I am fully aware of that, problem is I'm not in the military and I wouldn't be here if not for Hochstetter and his nerd herd." 'Might as well play up the part' I think 'heck, I'm probably not too far off!' "And I'm not crazy, Colonel Klink, just mad. Besides, I had to write something on your form. Not that it'd matter" I grumbled "Hochstetter probably only had me fill it out to taunt Hogan with later."

"Yes, well…" Klink stuttered. He was obviously still perturbed by something. "What are you wearing?" he finally blurted out.

I stand up for him and think what to tell him. I'm wearing a black cotton long sleeve shirt with an attached lower face mask (down at the moment) and a design on the front of it. The design is a basic calligraphy representation of a flame, a red swirl with a little tuft on top. Below that I'm wearing a pair of black denim pants with large, and now mostly empty, cargo pockets running down the sides. On my feet I have a pair of black leather combat boots, not really that special now that most of my supplies are missing. On my back is my long brown sleeveless leather duster with and good few more designs on the back in a dark red ink and several kanji. On my right hand I have a standard dueling glove. Black unpolished leather with a metal plate along the back of the hand and another ridge covering the knuckles, on my left hand is the glove I used to 'play' with the watch. Soft faded leather with kanji on the back and various gems over the tenketsu.

I look up at him and smile "It's really not that important, it's just my daily attire, I seem to be missing most of my supplies but other than that they're just some comfortable items I picked up while traveling." I bend over and mess with my boot. Smiling I straighten up and toss Klink a small grey ball "Here, have a smoke pellet on me, be careful where you toss it." And with that statement I was led out of Klink's office at pistol point by a sour lackey. It'd be just my luck if this guy was an irate sergeant.

As we walked out of Klink's building and headed for the cooler some of the men in the yard stopped what they were doing to stare at me. If Hogan's reaction to Jessica's name was any indication they probably knew what I was. Though it probably counted in my favor that I was a guy. 'Damn,' I thought, 'I hope Dasha didn't end up here somewhere.' I almost paused. 'Na! She can't be here the camp is still standing'.

As we reached the door to the cooler there was a muted bang. I smirked as the lackey assigned to guard me swung us around. There was a river of thick grey smoke gushing out of Klink's now open window. The moron had used the smoke pellet I tossed him. 'And curiosity killed the cat', I thought as Klink now leaned out said window gasping for air. Maybe this trip will be fun after all.


	33. Jake Duncan Part 3

**Jake Duncan - 3**

**Hey, There, Little Red Riding Hood**

I was brought to the area of the tunnel where they must have kept escapees hidden on their way through Stalag 13; it was an open-bay barracks area with about a dozen bunks. I was told just to pick a bunk and settle.

I was more than a little scared. Who wouldn't be? But if I was scared, Hogan and his men had to be terrified. This was beyond hiding a refugee or two for a few days until the next leg of the trip out of Germany could be arranged; this was indefinite. Even if they kept us all shut down in the tunnel out of sight, the logistics themselves were the biggest risk. How long could they keep smuggling food and other supplies to us before the Germans began to notice that their supplies were going down too fast? Never mind the fact that our very presence was putting the Travelers' Aid Society out of operation.

Largely to keep from working myself into a tizzy, I said a few prayers, then mentally ran through my scanty German vocabulary, conjugating verbs and declining nouns and adjectives. I was beginning to go through some arithmetic tables in German when Carter's voice called from beyond the doorway, "Miss Duncan? Come with me, please," he said.

Now what? I wondered with some trepidation as I got up and followed him.

I was brought to what looked like a makeshift photography studio. A stool was situated in front of a sheet that had been hung on the wall as a background, and Newkirk was getting a camera ready. Now I was _really_ nervous. I knew just enough to realize that they were going to be making ID papers for me, and that meant they were planning on sending me out. I hoped it was something foolproof, because I had absolutely no experience in their line of work.

When Newkirk was done taking pictures, Carter brought me to Colonel Hogan's office and left.

Hogan motioned toward the bunk. "Have a seat," he said, and I sat--carefully, remembering that they'd probably used most of their bed slats for shoring. "Do you speak any German--Sgt. Duncan?"

Staff sergeant, actually, but he was close enough that I'd swear my eyes darn near popped out of my head. "How'd you do that?" I blurted. "I mean, I know my reaction downstairs was pretty obvious, but how'd you guess my rank?"

"You were relaxed," he answered. "Most privates would be quaking in their boots at the sight of these," he flicked one of his eagles, "and even corporals are still a little stiff.

"Back to my original question, do you speak any German?"

"Not really; just a few words and phrases."

"That shouldn't be a problem; the people you'll be working with all speak English to one degree or another.

"I'm sending you out to meet with the local Underground. With the Gestapo in camp, our movements are limited; we need an agent on the outside who won't be missed here."

I leaned forward, my elbows resting on my knees and my hands dangling between, my usual posture when I'm listening intently. "What'll I be doing?" I asked.

"You'll be going out tonight with Schnitzer in the dog truck--I take it you know about him?"

I nodded, noticing that his eyes were suddenly everywhere in the room except on me. What was--_oh._ "Sorry," I said, straightening up again. "I grew up with three brothers."

A grin twitched at the corners of his mouth; clearly, that simple statement said it all.

He went to the back wall and did something to it that I couldn't see; one of the boards popped out, and he pulled down a map from behind it. "Here's Stalag 13. Major Hochstetter is from the Gestapo's Hammelburg headquarters; since he's here with those scientists, the lab is probably within this region." His hand described a circle centered on Hammelburg. "You'll be helping them search for it."

This time he looked me over without a trace of discomfort, taking in my loose-fitting black jeans, the dark plaid flannel shirt I was wearing as a lightweight jacket, and the Harley-Davidson T-shirt showing beneath it. "For what you'll be doing, your own clothes will be fine," he said, and I started buttoning the flannel shirt, since that H-D logo would be about as out of place as it gets. "You'll need a code name for contact purposes," he went on, and his eyes settled on my hair, copper-penny red, and worn in a single long braid coiled around my head. For an instant, I was afraid he was going to call me Rapunzel, and I think he was considering it, because, after a moment, he shook his head minutely. "You're Little Red Riding Hood."

It was my turn to twitch a grin. Red hair and a biker's T-shirt, and I was pretty sure he figured it wasn't pillion I rode.

"What about dogs; how are you with big dogs?"

I shrugged. "I've got no problems with them. Heck, we've got a pit-bull terrier at home; sweetest thing on the face of the earth--just don't try to get into the house uninvited."

Concern showed in his voice as he asked next, "How are the dogs shown in the program?"

"Friendly to a fault," I replied and described the scene where a dog tries to play with LeBeau while the diminutive Frenchman is trying to hide in the bushes.

Colonel Hogan rolled his eyes, and I could imagine him reminding himself, _It's a comedy; it's a comedy..._ "I don't suppose I need to tell you that's 'way off the mark. They won't attack you, but don't try to pet them. They'll sniff at you, then mostly ignore you." He closed up the map. "Carter and LeBeau will take you out through the dog pen tonight. Try to get some sleep until then. Any questions?"

"No, sir," I said and got to my feet; this time, I did snap to and salute. He returned it, then opened the door and told Carter to escort me back to the tunnel.

Sleep? He had to be kidding! And it wasn't just nerves over the mission; there was a whole lifetime of fantasies pouring to the forefront of my memory. Technically, it could be argued that, simply by addressing me by my rank, Hogan had just recalled me to active duty. _Hogan,_ the very reason I'd chosen the Air Force in the first place! _Squeeee!_

_Ahem_.

My favorite scene in the entire series is the one where Hogan is flying the bomber, and Carter is the bombardier. With that scene replaying itself in my mind, I dozed off at last.

Some time later, Carter called me, and I woke to full awareness, something I have never done in my life, except during my six weeks in boot camp. I sat up and shoved my feet back into my boots--yes, 20 years later, I still have my combat boots, and I still wear them; they're the most comfortable shoes I've ever worn, next to my low-quarters (oxfords, in civilian terms).

LeBeau went up the ladder first, and Carter was behind me as I struggled up another ladder. The one sign of my age is a rather mysterious muscle atrophy of the legs that runs in my family and that doctors have never been able to explain or treat. It makes things like climbing stairs and ladders quite difficult, and if I do it too much, my legs will simply refuse to support my weight until I've rested. I'd managed to haul myself up the ladder to the barracks by letting my arms do most of the work, but this was the third or fourth time today, and my limbs just weren't having any more. "Carter, you're going to have to push me up," I said.

He went beet-red. "I can't do that!" he stammered.

"I'm not exactly thrilled about it, either, but it's the only way I'm getting up that ladder. Just try to forget I'm a girl."

This time, I was puffing like a bellows by the time I made it to the surface; LeBeau held the doghouse up just enough for me to slither out from beneath. I crawled across the pen, vaguely surprised to discover that my exhausted legs were still up to a combat crawl. With LeBeau's whispered assurance that it was safe, I made my way into the middle of the pack of dogs clambering into the truck.

Dr. Schnitzer was a lot more practical-minded; seeing that I was having trouble negotiating the distance between ground and truck, he grabbed me by the belt and lifted me in. I whispered my thanks and moved to the front of the cargo compartment.

Just as the colonel had told me, the dogs clustered around me, sniffing at whatever part of me each one could reach; then, their curiosity satisfied, they lay down in the somewhat cramped quarters and pretty much ignored me as the truck got underway, although there was the occasional wary glance in my direction, and a few low growls when an involuntary grunt escaped me as we went over a particularly nasty pothole.

Most of the ride was pretty rough, between the dirt road and the primitive suspension system of a truck that had to date back at least to the mid-1930s, but at least sitting still allowed my legs to recover to the point that, by the time we reached our destination, I was able to stand and walk without feeling like my legs were going to buckle under me.

I was brought into a barn, where four or five people were waiting. The sole woman in the group approached me, a gorgeous girl whom I identified before she ever said a word. The actress didn't do her justice.

"'Allo," she said, in her musical French accent. "I am called Tiger."


	34. Linda and Tuttle

**Linda**

Colonel Hogan comes out into the common room. "When is Klink going in to Hammelburg next?"

No one answers. A couple of them shrug. Obviously no clear plans. "Right," the Colonel says; "then I'll need to _make_ him go."

"_Make_ him go?" I repeat. Colonel Hogan looks at me with suspicion. I wonder why he keeps doing that. I haven't been anything but nice to him. But when he seems to think I'm comparing him to the television version of himself, he gets… a bit… defensive.

"_What?"_ the Colonel asks, his eyes narrow.

"Nothing!" I claim. _I just wish I could see this famous Hogan charm in action!_ "Uh… when are you going to… _make_ him?"

His expression doesn't seem to indicate that he believes the answer I gave him, but he lets out a heavy breath and gets back to business. "As soon as I've got you three sorted out." Colonel Hogan rubs his chin, then lets his hand slide down his neck. It's a gesture I've seen countless times… well… at least on television. Bob Crane really did have it right. "Okay, how about this?" he begins at last. "Klink's going to go to the Hoffbrau tomorrow night. He's going to _coincidentally_ run into Jessica again," he says with a nod in GS's direction.

One of her eyebrows raises up, but she says nothing.

"This time, however, she won't be with Olsen."

"Just as well," Newkirk pipes up. "That would put a considerable damper on Klink's advances."

"Exactly," the Colonel says with a nod. "Instead, she'll be with Linda."

It's my eyebrow's turn to rise.

"Dressed appropriately, of course," Colonel Hogan adds.

"Appropriately for _what_?" Kinch asks, taking the words right out of my mouth.

"_Anything_."

_Ah._

"Jessica, you're welcoming your cousin for a visit from France. She speaks only a small amount of German. Klink, of course, can't speak enough French to get his face slapped, so as long as you stick to the script, you'll be okay there."

"What if we happen to encounter a German who _does_ speak French?" Jessica asks. "Not to mention my French is abysmal, so how are Linda and I supposed to communicate when we're with Colonel Klink?"

Hogan raises his chin at me. "She's an actress. Improvise. Body language is universal, right?" he asks me.

"Uh… yeah. Right."

"The goal of your chance encounter is to get invited to a party the following night—one in which you can bring your other cousin… Tuttle. Between her French and your German and Linda's acting, you should have no trouble getting in with the Kraut crowd."

"What party?" Tuttle blurts out.

"The one that you'll get the Krauts to throw in honor of your visit. Get it?"

Tuttle, Jessica and I look at each other. No matter what we're thinking, there's only one answer we can give, and we say it almost in unison: "Got it."

"Good."

* * *

**Tuttle**

"Just couldn't wait to get your arms around me, eh?"

Newkirk stopped and looked at me, arching an eyebrow. His arms were definitely around me, but only because he was taking my measurements for some sort of uniform. "Keep dreaming, love," he said.

"Well, I admit I'm no Iron—"

"Stop right there," he growled, cinching his measuring tape around my waist. He looked up to be met with a little grin. "Cheeky bugger," he muttered under his breath.

"What's the matter, don't like all us young girls swooning over you?"

He quirked an eyebrow and smirked. "Listen, love, I know you can't help yourself, but let's keep to your measurements."

"Nice, eh!" I said, putting my hands on my hips. Newkirk knocked them off so he could get the tape around.

"Sure. Knew a bird with your numbers in London."

"Really?" Not surprising. I was very—

"The bearded lady at the circus I traveled with." Ouch!

I scrunched my nose and folded my arms over my chest. "Haha. The circus, huh? And what were you? The miss—"

"Magician," Newkirk answered before I could finish. The missing link! I never got out the good ones!

I narrowed my eyes. I'd get him. "The grocer must've made a fortune selling rotten tomatoes to your audience."

Newkirk actually looked hurt. I was about to blurt out an apology when he shook his head and chuckled. "Cheeky bugger."

"I try," I answered with a lopped-sided grin. "You done?" I was surprised that through all this measuring I hadn't lost my cool even once. Truth of the matter is, I'm the most ticklish person in the world! But I was paying more attention to riling Newkirk up to even notice.

"Done, now get out of here." He backhanded my shoulder from behind and then jerked his thumb to the exit. Hopping off the crate I was standing on, I lingered until Newkirk finally looked back at me. "Go on, shoo."

I held my hands up. "Okay, okay! I'm leaving, I know when I'm not loved!" I quickly trotted to the exit. Newkirk turned back to his material and I took a moment to study him. How exactly did he feel- putting the fate of his operation in the hands of a bunch of dumb women from the future. I bet it scared the heck out of him. Heck! It scared the heck out of me!

Newkirk looked over his shoulder. "What?"

"Wha—oh, nothing, I just—" I caught myself and grinned. "I was just thinking. If you ever change your mind about us young'uns swooning over you, I bet I could get my hands on a canoe!" As expected, he gave me a funny look. I just shrugged and ducked out of the room.

* * *

**Linda**

"Uh... I don't know how to say this," I begin, watching as Newkirk screws up his face and clearly tries to think of a way to dress me appropriately "for anything," as the Colonel said.

"What's that?" the Englishman asks. I'm pleased to have the chance to talk with him. I've always liked Newkirk—well, his character, anyway, and I want to know if this version of Peter is the same as the fictitious one.

"Well... I have an idea how to dress."

The real Newkirk raises an eyebrow. "Oh, you do," he replies. His real sarcasm is a little scarier than the light-hearted stuff his counterpart does on television.

"Well... yes!" I finally say confidently. "I've had to do this kind of thing before."

"Have you?" he asks, and I see in his eyes something that says he's not thinking about the theatre.

"On stage," I add forcefully.

"Oh." _Is that a little bit of disappointment?_

"Yes. You need... uh... to give me something to wear underneath that's acceptably... seductive... but I have to be able to get to it fast—like, by just ripping the outer layer off."

Newkirk's eyebrows have nearly disappeared into his hairline. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

"You need..." I trail off. He needs something they don't have during World War Two. And if I get them to use it now... well... causality and all that. I don't want Newkirk suddenly becoming a multi-millionaire master inventor if he's not meant to be one. On the other hand, these boys have been exposed to a lot of stuff since we arrived that they shouldn't see. "You need Velcro."

"Velcro?" Newkirk's eyes narrow. "What's that?"

"It's a material that sticks to itself, until you... tug on it hard enough that it comes apart."

"Sounds not unlike tape." Do I hear a bit of smarmy in that man's voice?

"You can put it back together when you're ready. And you can sew it into cloth, use it on wallets, close up the edges of..."

"All right, all right, I get it," Newkirk concedes. "So where do you get this miracle stuff?"

"I'll have to ask if any of the other girls have it. We won't need a lot. Just about six inches. The rest can be accomplished with a couple of buttons."

"And what about your two mates?" he asks. "Will they need this stuff, too?"

I shake my head and smile. "No. Frills and buttons... that'll make due for the rest of the clothes. Just if you want to make an impact, nothing's more stunning to a man than a woman who can change her appearance in about three seconds. Especially if the new appearance is... more suggestive than the original appearance. Am I right?"

Newkirk's eyes had wandered off into fantasyland while I spoke, but now that they've landed on my body I don't see the fantasy going away. Poor man, he's been away from women for so long he'll take anyone... and I _do_ mean anyone...

"Hey!" I say, to get him back to the here and now—or is that the there and then, from my point of view? Newkirk clears his throat and tries to look innocent. About as possible as it is for his television counterpart. "Let's go upstairs and see if anyone has any."

* * *

**Tuttle**

My stomach was tying itself into such complicated knots that it could have won a merit badge.

I was sitting alone in the tunnels, waiting. Several books lay on the floor around me in a heap. I had tried to read one, but hadn't been paying attention. Figuring it was just the book, I tried a different one, and then another and another. I still couldn't focus. How could I?

The reality of my situation had started to sink in only an hour before. I was going to be a spy in the heart of Nazi Germany. Did Hogan realize what the enemy did to spies if they were caught?! I could be shot! Or worse! Was there worse? Oh yes, definitely. These were Nazis!!

How in the heck was I supposed to pull this off?! The fate of the whole operation depended on me not blowing this.

I tried to remind myself that it wasn't just on my shoulders; I was going out with Jessica and Linda too. But that just made the anxiety worse. After all, if I screwed up, they'd get caught right along with me. Oh, never mind the pretenses, I was more scared for me than them. Yes, I am selfish… and don't forget a jerk. too!

Jumping to my feet, I started to pace. It was something I always did when I was nervous. It helped burn off energy.

"This is crazy!" I said to myself as I threw my hands into the air. "I'm just a dumb kid! What the heck am I doing?!

"Improvise, he said! Improvise! I couldn't adlib a belch after a Hungarian dinner!

"Who thought of sending me out in the first place?! Why can't I just stay in the tunnels forever! They're not so bad. Just a little dark, and slimy, and scary and— and— and!" I let out a frustrated growl.

"Oh yeah, some spy I'll make. We'll all be hanging by our thumbs before I get two words out! Well, I'm not going to do it! I'm going to march right up to Colonel Hogan and tell him to go jump off a bridge!"

And with that, I turned on my heel and started marching out of the room, only to trip over one of my books. I fell to the floor with a thud and growled at myself. "Some spy," I muttered with a sigh as I rested my chin on my hand. It was at that precise second that Carter decided to come into the room. I shouldn't have been surprised when he tripped over me.

Laurel, meet Hardy.

"Sorry!" we both said at the same time as we picked ourselves off the floor. "Why are you sorry?! It's my fault! Hey!"

I held up my hands. "Stop. Look, I'm sorry. I tripped you."

"But I should've watched where I was going."

I let out a little sigh. "Okay, it's both our faults. What's up?"

"Colonel says I gotta take your picture and get your paperwork started," Carter answered.

My shoulders slumped. "Forget it," I said dismally. "There's no point."

Carter blinked. "But you have to. You can't go out without them."

I honestly felt like crying. I didn't want to go up! I wanted to stay safe in the tunnels! But I couldn't tell Carter that. Heck, I couldn't tell Hogan that either! These guys risked their lives day after day- what would they think of me for being such a big chicken. "I know, I know," I finally said. "But, um… I can't get my picture taken. Cameras steal your soul- old Metis superstition." Or, at least, that's what my Dad always said.

Carter just gave me a look. "Come on- I'll use my non-soul-stealing camera, just for you." He grabbed my arm and started to pull me away, but I dug my heels into the ground.

"Yeah, but, um, I'm having a bad hair day."

"It looks fine to me."

"Well, I need to brush my teeth!"

Carter let out an exasperated sigh. "So keep your mouth closed."

"I just remembered I uh—uh—" What was a good excuse? "I have to walk the dog!" Walk the dog? Oh yes, great spy material I was.

Carter stopped and dropped my arm, turning to look at me. "You sure are making a lot of excuses. What's wrong?"

I dug my toe into the ground. "Well, I… Listen Carter, I just figure everyone would be better off if I just stayed down here, you know what I'm saying?" He tilted his head and studied me. It was completely unnerving. _Carter_ was looking at me… thoughtfully! Carter! "I mean, it's just that I'm thinking of Jessica and Linda. They'll be better off without me. I don't even speak German!"

"But you speak French," he pointed out.

"Yes, and somewhere, LeBeau is crying in his crepe suzette."

He looked a little confused. "No, he's not. He's helping to get that paperwork ready."

"Oh, you know what I mean." I gave out another little sigh and sat down, resting my elbows on my knees. I looked up at him meeting his curious glance. "I'm no spy. I can't go out there."

"Well, heck, none of us our spies. We're just POWs," Carter said with a shrug.

I raised an eyebrow incredulously. "Who just blow up bridges and trains to stave off boredom?"

"Sure."

"And kidnapping generals and scientists?"

"We're lonely."

"And what about—"

"You know, we're all scared," he interrupted.

I stopped and blinked in surprise. "I'm sorry?" I said, not sure if I heard him right.

Carter plunked down beside me. "I said, we're all scared. You'd have to be dumb not to be scared."

I stopped and thought about it for a moment. Yeah, they were scared. I knew that. I hadn't expected one of them to admit it (although, hadn't Carter in one episode), but I knew it. What was it Hawkeye said in one episode of _MASH_? 99.9 of the time, a hero is just someone who's cold enough and tired enough and hungry enough not to give a damn? "Yeah, I know, but—"

"But what?"

"But, you all seem so brave. I can't do what you do. I'm just a dumb kid who slings fries!"

"And I'm just a dumb kid who runs my uncle's drug store."

I wasn't winning this argument. "Yeah, but, but, how do you just go out there and do it if you're so scared?"

"You just gotta do what you gotta do. Don't think about being scared. Just think about doing it and you'll forget you're terrified."

I sighed. "You're making it sound easier than it probably is." He just shrugged. "Well, I guess… I guess…" Carter just watched me, waiting for me to continue. "I guess—" I looked over at him and he just nodded, rolling his hand in front of him. "I guess…" Oh, I had to stop being so serious and vulnerable before I flipped. "I guess if you could do it, anyone can!" I finally said with a satisfied grin.

Carter rolled his eyes. "Thanks," he said, getting up. "You ready for your picture now?" he asked, offering me his hand and helping me up.

I brushed myself off and shrugged, feeling a lot better. I could do this. "I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille." I paused and looked at him thoughtfully. "You know, you're a lot smarter in real life than on the show."

"Thanks… I think," he answered with a puzzled looked. "You know, I've been meaning to ask you about that…"


	35. Hochstetter's Chapter 3

**Hochstetter's Interim Chapter 3**

**by Hexiva**

Hochstetter waited for Byakugan's answer, watching the boy's face for signs of the distress he expected

Hochstetter waited for Byakugan's answer, watching the boy's face for signs of the distress he expected. It seemed to show for a second, only to be replaced by that odd, inappropriate grin.

"It's nothing much, some friends were researching the second Great German War and your names-" he gestured at Hochstetter and Hogan, "came up every now and then. Problem was, after a rather curious transmission, they started disappearing and reports of German scientists appearing in nut houses started appearing in newspaper files from the late 1870s. The rest of it the major should know- I popped up on his desk shortly after finding that out."

_1870s? _Hochstetter glanced at Herzer, but the scientist and his companion were staring out the window. Herzer was looking puzzled, unsure what his colleague was looking at, but the other had an expression of rapt, happy fascination. Hochstetter followed their gazes, but saw nothing of any importance. When he looked back at Hogan, the American spy had just left off whispering to Byakugan.

"What did you say to the prisoner?" Hochstetter snapped, thanking God for the time he had spent learning about English questions. He knew he could about handle them without making a fool of himself.

"He asked me what I was called," Byakugan said. "Byakugan, GSJessica, 0876707." Hochstetter noticed with some consternation that Hogan seemed to be worried by those names.

"What does he. . .mean. What is this _gee esgessika_? What does Hogan know?" Hochstetter stumbled over the words. _I __hate_ _English. _

"I have no idea," Hogan said, and Hochstetter supposed that Byakugan got more out of that than he did, because the boy cringed.

"Unfriendly. May I go to the cooler now? Please? You all have better things to do, and without the watch I'm not much use to you. You have a treasure hunt to get to, Major. Klink has paperwork, and Hogan has some more escape tunnels to dig and a poker game with the guards to study for. Let's go before I die of boredom." The same disturbed grin, Hochstetter noticed.

The Gestapo officer decided that his prisoner probably had the right idea, gave the appropriate orders, and then hurried out of the office. Herzer and the other scientist started to follow him.

As Herzer reached the bottom of the steps, the other scientist stumbled and fell down the stairs. His face was a shade that Hochstetter was pretty certain human faces shouldn't be.

"You look like you're six weeks dead," said Hochstetter, with what, for him, passed for compassion.

"I feel it," the grey-faced scientist gasped.

"Are you all right, Rehle?" Herzer worriedly asked him.

"Where's the lavatory in this place?" he said in answer, "Near, I hope!"

Rehle didn't make it to the toilets. He threw up before he had gotten more than a few yards away from the office.

"Yech," commented Hochstetter.

"I'm- sorry," Rehle said, wiping his mouth. "I must have eaten something that was off…"

"Is that why you were looking so odd back in Klink's office?"

"Odd? I felt perfectly fine in the office." He frowned. "Funny, though, I remember feeling very happy, but I can't remember why."

"You _might _want to see a doctor about that," suggested Herzer tentatively.

"I _am _a doctor."

"You're a physicist. It's not the same thing."

"I don't care whether you're the Kaiser and he's the president!" Hochstetter growled. "Just get away from me before you throw up over my boots!"

"Right. Lavatory," Rehle said, and hurried off in the direction Hochstetter pointed.

"Bad time to get the stomach flu," said Herzer, looking after Rehle.

"Ja," agreed Hochstetter, scrubbing his splattered boots in the dirt.

As they were heading back towards the cooler, Herzer stopped suddenly.

"Do you know any history, Herr Major?"

"What does _that _have to do with--"

"Do you know what the colonists brought to the New World with them?"

"Ships, food, weapons… I don't know! This is not the time for a history quiz!"

"They brought all that, yes, but they also brought other things, things so small you can't see them." Herzer's tone had a patronizing hint to it, Hochstetter thought.

"What are you talking about? We have a time traveler to interrogate!"

"Yes! A time _traveler! _Someone who comes from an environment unlike ours. Just like the European colonists. _The colonists who brought disease!" _

"You think what's-his-name has some sort of plague? Why didn't you just _say _so?" said Hochstetter irritably. He didn't like being shouted at.

"I didn't think you'd take so _long_ to figure out what I meant! How slow can—"

Hochstetter was silent. Absolutely silent. He looked at Herzer and watched the scientist's eyes travel from his swastika armband, to his Party badge, and finally come to rest on the four pips on his collar. Hochstetter saw the terror rising, saw one hand clench into a fist. He suddenly bared his teeth in a mockery of a grin.

"Just remember, 'Herr Doktor', that I am an officer of the Gestapo, not one of your, ah, '_nerd herd_.' For now, you are indispensable to the mission. Later…" he let that implication hang unspoken.

"Of course, Herr Major," Herzer said, swallowing his pride. "I will try to be more polite in the future."

Hochstetter's grin widened. "Remember that, Herzer. Otherwise you will be in the same boat as Byakugan."

Herzer followed him quietly to the cooler.

There, Rehle sat, looking, if it was possible, worse than ever. To Hochstetter's relief, he had a bag in front of him.

"You should be sleeping it off," said Herzer.

"Can't miss this," the physicist croaked. "If you're right, Herzer, this could be a once-in-a-lifetime ex-- experience . . ."

"If you don't rest, you may not _have _much of a lifetime," warned Herzer.

"It's the stomach flu, Herzer," Hochstetter said hurriedly. "It's _just _the stomach flu."

"Right," said Herzer, his eyes straying to Hochstetter's uniform again.

"I'll be fine," said Rehle, and then yanked the paper bag up to his face and was violently sick.

"I certainly _hope_ so," said Herzer darkly.

"Just keep a hold on that paper bag!" Hochstetter snapped as he entered Byakugan's cell.

"Something disagreed with you?" the young prisoner asked Rehle, who just made a complicated face.

"I feel like my stomach is trying to revolt against me and storm the Winter, Summer and Spring Palaces."

"The Bolsheviks are everywhere," said Herzer with a straight face. Hochstetter wasn't certain if he should take that as a slight against anti-Communism or a silly joke. Either way, he had no time for it.

"How did you get here? Where are you from?" he demanded of Byakugan.

"I already told you about the transport module. I'm _from _the twenty-first century."

Hochstetter's eyes flew open. "You are from a hundred years in the future?"

"What did he say? What did he say?" asked Herzer eagerly. He didn't speak English.

"He said he's from the twenty-first century!" Hochstetter translated.


	36. Hogan's Chapter 4

**Hogan's Interim Chapter 4**

And he thought having scared, crying adult women dropping in on them from the future had been bad.

Hogan rubbed the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to quell the headache which had taken up permanent residence there. After some time to adjust to where they were and what had happened, the other women had pulled themselves together and taken their mission assignments more or less in stride. Even Tuttle, youngest of those he sent outside the relative safety of the tunnels, had bucked herself up and—after disconcerting Newkirk some more (canoes?)—had steeled herself to do her best.

This other youngster, however…

The headache flared again at the thought of Iron America instructing _him_ in military law. Instead of a POW camp, and covert espionage organization, Hogan now found himself in charge of a nursery school. What was wrong with this child?! He hadn't even answered her outrageous accusations; a rare moment of Hogan being struck dumb. What could he say in answer to such a statement from a child, a girl, and a civilian? All he really wanted to do at that moment was turn her over his knee and give her a sound spanking.

After her kissing Newkirk, however, Hogan had to admit he was rather afraid to.

The little girl—ahem, _young woman_—after seeming overly contrite and apologetic for her initial misbehavior, had suddenly turned again into some demon child with no concept of the idea of 'consequences'. She ran wild in the tunnels, escaping her frazzled chaperones. Did she not realize the peril of being the only female, however young, amidst a thousand sex-starved men? They were soldiers and gentlemen, all… give or take a few. Out of any thousand men there would inevitably be a couple who could not be trusted to behave, especially with a frivolous little tart flaunting herself before them. She'd hit a few of them when she'd been displaying herself in a shower without proper guards. But, then, she'd also hit a few who'd only been trying to protect her.

Was the girl insane? Or was this the face of the children of the future? Hogan's headache spiked again at that thought.

Now that new one—the boy—had arrived. Buy-a-cougar or some such. What had he said? By-a-koo-gan. That one's self-selected mission seemed to be to try to get Hogan, and himself, shot, probably after a good, hearty round of Gestapo torture. He was mouthy. He was arrogant. He was suicidally incautious.

He was insane.

Was he even from the same year as the others? Hogan had to wonder. He had openly and brazenly announced the key code words, "GSJessica" and "0876707", but then had Hochstetter convinced he was from a century hence, almost forty years further forward in time than the woman had come from. The young man's clothing, also, exceeded any level of oddness Hogan had seen from the women. And even Linda had appeared wearing nothing but a man's undershirt and skivvies; apparently had been parading around in public in that state of undress! Yet this By-a-koo-gan was festooned in something Hogan hoped—for the sake of future civilization—was some sort of costume and not normal human attire.

Also, there was all the Japanese paraphernalia. Hogan scowled as he considered that. The women had all been from Allied countries and, uniformly, seemed anti-Nazi. Byakugan overtly flaunted a sympathetic connection with the enemy. Yet by the same token he also scorned and mocked Hochstetter.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Ally or enemy? Part of this other group? Or from somewhere/when else?

Hogan leaned back, arms folded over his chest. Regardless of how fearfully some of the women had viewed him at first, and regardless of the things he'd had to do in this war, Hogan did not like killing and always treated it as a last resort. _Let's face it, Rob, you're a softie deep down and you'd never hurt little Iron America, no matter how much she needs having her silly neck rung. And you'll do everything you can to protect her._ But this new one… Whatever else he was, Byakugan was a danger surpassing any of their other visitors. He had to be dealt with quickly. And without sentiment.

* * *

Bad timing, it was, that Hogan had arranged for Iron America to be sent outside the wire to be 'captured' by the Stalag 13 guards and, therefore, formally admitted as a prisoner, right as Hochstetter and more of his goons arrived. Hogan had failed to mention to her they could have managed this simply by bribing Hilda to make a small revision in the camp records. Arranging her 'arrival' in Stalag 13 to include the customary week in the cooler wasn't retaliation, Hogan told himself. It was self defense!

"…Corporal Rhys Whitis, of the United States Marine Corp…" was the identity Iron America had chosen for herself. _Private Ray White, United States Army Air Corps_ was what Newkirk and Carter had put on her dogtags. Klink—with Hogan's 'guidance'—would assume she (_he_, Hogan reminded himself with a mental kick—_he_) was lying for some devious Allied purpose and would record the identity Hogan's men had chosen.

As Hogan stepped out of Klink's office, onto the steps, all hell broke loose in every direction. Byakugan was unceremoniously dragged toward the cooler. One of the 'nerd herd', as Hochstetter called them (he'd have to ask Jessica or Linda what that meant) threw up on Hochstetter's shoes. Smoke poured out of Klink's office window, followed by Klink shouting for the fire brigade. Shouts came from beyond the wire as a Gestapo patrol, not Klink's guards, found Iron America. Then ensued a tussle, with it unclear who got the most licks in, Iron America or the Gestapo brutes. Hogan winced as one punched her in the stomach, effectively quieting her down. He hadn't meant for that to happen to the young lady… err… young woman. _Man_. Young _man_.

Schultz spun in circles in the compound, not sure which disaster to address first, eventually settling on rescuing Iron America from the rough hands of the Gestapo.

Through the chaos, Hogan overheard a most interesting conversation between Hochstetter and the scientists. The scientists apparently feared the time traveler, Byakugan, had brought to them some deadly plague from the future. Interesting, Hogan thought. He could use that. Not concerned himself over the plague threat, Hogan hid a smile as he considered it fortunate he'd told LeBeau to spike one of the scientist's dinner last night. When he'd done so, Hogan hadn't had a particular goal in mind, just wanted to add an element he might be able to use later, to keep the Krauts riled up and disconcerted.

Reentering the camp, Schultz had Iron America (looking very much the part of a scared, defiant teenaged soldier) by the scruff of her—_his_—neck, leading her to Klink's office. Still on the porch, Hogan eased back, observing the dark, intense scrutiny Hochstetter gave her as she and Schultz side-stepped the puddle of puke. Holding his breath, Hogan waited to see if he needed to intervene, but Hochstetter spun on his (splattered) heels and marched toward the cooler.

Trailing Schultz and Iron America into Klink's office (smoke now cleared, but Klink still off-stride), Hogan promptly berated Klink for not informing him there was a new prisoner. Then, turning to Iron America, he gave her a stern look, saying, "Name, rank and serial number only. That's all they can ask for."

Back outside, Hogan checked his pocket for a Schultz-candy bar—a candy bar with the label lined with the customary bribe. In the television show, he was told, the Schultz character sold out only for candy. Maybe the later author of those scenes didn't know the real Schultz's price was higher, much higher, than that.

The door opened, with Schultz leading Iron America out. He'd apparently gotten a good look at her face for the first time for he babbled to Hogan incoherently.

"You know nothing, Schultz," Hogan murmured soothingly, slipping him a candy bar. It slid into Schultz's pocket.

"I know nothing," Schultz repeated methodically. A huge grin appeared on Iron America's face. All those women had a soft spot for the huge Kraut, it seemed.

"And, Schultz," Hogan added thoughtfully, slipping Schultz another candy bar, "do yourself a favor—skip the strip search."

* * *

Byakugan hadn't been so lucky.

All he'd been left with was a gray German jumpsuit and a plain wooden bench to sit on. That and a fair number of rapidly purpling bruises.

Easing through the tunnels, Hogan silently opened a peephole into the cooler. Hochstetter and his goons had Byakugan in the observation cell, bars on three sides, so he could be watched intently at all times. All Byakugan's toys and magic tricks had been taken from him. From what Hogan could see, nothing the young man had on him was anything more than that—toys and tricks. The smoke pellets were something Carter could easily reproduce. Other items, creating squeaks and gasps from the scientists as they cautiously probed them, appeared to be more up Newkirk's alley.

Simple tricks and nonsense, Hogan decided, narrowing his eyes as he peered, but being perceived as something more, something exotically dangerous from the future, thanks to the power of suggestion. The queasy member of the 'nerd herd' continued to wretch into a bag, his nausea no doubt enhanced by the now-clearing smoke from another mishandled smoke pellet.

Byakugan's bizarre clothing had been stripped from him and was being methodically searched thread by thread. When dissected that way, Hogan could see the clothing, however peculiar looking, was actually nothing but ordinary clothing. Iron America's 'velcro' was infinitely more futuristic than any of this.

Somehow Hogan knew that at some point later tonight, Hochstetter would be secretly dressing up in that costume, raising that ornate glove high in a fist, hoping to acquire 'magical' powers from it. A smile crept over Hogan's face. He'd assign Newkirk and Kinchloe to see if they could get a photograph of the moment. That could be useful, at least suitable for framing.

Turning his attention from the Gestapo and scientists, Hogan studied the young man in the cell. Byakugan appeared much more ordinary, and harmless, stripped of his regalia. He also had lost much of that edge of cocky defiance. Getting smacked around and forced to submit could do that to a fellow. That was a lesson even Hogan had had to learn when he was first captured, not that the lesson stuck, of course.

The lesson wouldn't stick with this one, either. Even now the young fellow kept anger in his eyes as he glared relentlessly at Hochstetter. Nope, Hogan just could not see this strange boy as being allied with the Nazis. That did not, however, mean he was on Hogan's side. The fact remained, it was necessary to eliminate Byakugan.

That thought resting heavily with him as Hogan continued to examine Byakugan, Hogan considered the scene in Klink's office. He could well imagine Byakugan saw it vastly differently than the rest of the observers. In Byakugan's later retelling of the events, he would undoubtedly appear as a heroic figure, brazenly controlling all around him as he smart-mouthed his way to victory.

The reality? A young man thoroughly overpowered and outmatched getting the crap beaten out of him as he spewed incomprehensible retorts.

Probably, too, in Byakugan's perception he marched boldly out of the office, feeling pert and brilliant enough to slay dragons. Instead he sat huddled on a bench in a cell, with no magic tricks left in his arsenal, pale and unsteady with a headache fit to kill a horse from being smacked over the head with a rifle butt.

Self-delusions can be useful, though, Hogan thought with a twitch of sympathy, quickly and thoroughly suppressed.

* * *

"Poison in his food?" LeBeau suggested, setting the final plate of dinner down on the barrack's table in front of Hogan. Giving LeBeau a dirty look for the timing of his comment, Hogan commenced eating anyhow.

"That would work into the goons' fear that he's carrying some sort of plague," Hogan considered between bites, "but poison's a nasty way to die. Any other suggestions?"

"Crossbow," Carter piped in. No one paid him any heed.

"A good old fashioned…" Newkirk made a slicing gesture across his throat.

"Messy," Hogan said. "Besides we can't get into the cell. He's under constant observation. So no strangling, suffocation, stabbing…"

"Electrocution." Carter, again. "We wire a million volts to the chamber pot and…"

Kinchloe cut in, "From what you've told us, all we have to do is wait for him to mouth off to one of the guards and they'll shoot him for us."

"Believe me, they'll want to," Hogan said. "But they're under strict orders to keep him alive. Maybe we can use fear of the Plague From the Future to get them to back off just long enough for one of us to knock him off." He frowned, concentrating, while his men waited expectantly. "Nah…" Hogan finally said, reaching for his hat, he stood. "It's not quite right. We don't want to leave the Krauts just a body. We want to leave them a mystery, too. Let me work on it a bit," he concluded. "Right now I have to make sure Klink isn't late for his 'date' in town."

"Poor Jessica," LeBeau said quietly.

"_Poor Jessica_," Newkirk mimicked. "She actually _likes_ the blighter."

"You suppose they've… you know… _kissed_?" Carter whispered dramatically.

Shaking his head as Newkirk smacked Carter with his own cap, Hogan shut the barrack's door behind him.

No worries on getting Klink into town. All scheming and plotting aside, Jessica had simply picked up the telephone and called him. So accustomed was Hogan to using subterfuge to achieve his ends, he sometimes forgot the forthright approach could work too. Klink was already heading for his staff car, a bounce in his step, his lips suspiciously shiny. After the commotion this afternoon in camp _stopping_ him from leaving is what would have taken the skill of a master manipulator!

"Where you heading, Kommandant? You have a date?" Hogan intercepted him as he opened the car door.

"In fact, I do, Hogan," Klink said agreeably. "An attractive widow saw fit to call me and ask me to meet her this evening at the Hofbrau."

"Sounds kind of desperate, if you ask me," Hogan said. "A widow, huh? Finally surrendering to Frau Linkmeier, sir?"

"I should say not," Klink huffed. "She's a very fetching blond named Wilhelmina."

"Wilhelmina," Hogan echoed. "Wilhelm and Wilhelmina? What a pair…"

"Pair of what," another voice, a voice that made both Hogan and Klink tense and bristle, sounded near them. Hochstetter strode up to the car. "Where are you going, Klink?"

"To town," Klink snapped.

"On a date," Hogan added helpfully. "Say, maybe the widow has a friend. A friend who likes Gestapo officers?"

Klink answered, "No one likes Gesta…" He caught himself. "…uh, I'll ask her," he finished, trying to pull the car door closed. Hogan held it firmly open.

"Thank you, Herr Kommandant," Hochstetter said with his best smarmy charm, "I'll ask her myself. Move over." With Klink reluctantly surrendering the door, Hochstetter climbed into the car.

"Enjoy," Hogan said sweetly, as the door slammed on Klink's if-looks-could-kill glare at him.

"One down," Hogan said to himself, watching them drive out through the gates. That got Hochstetter out of the way. He sent up a prayer of luck to Jessica and Linda—especially to Linda, hoping she was an absolutely brilliant actress to manage a date with Hochstetter.

* * *

Hogan could hear a scratching on the stone blocks even before he released the hasp and slid the stone inward. Crawling into Iron America's cell, Hogan immediately found himself swarmed by the girl, frantic and crying. Good heavens! He had hoped the cooler would 'cool' her off a touch, but this reaction was beyond all reasonable measure. Being trapped alone in the chilly dark could quickly affect some people—he'd seen it happen—but Iron America, despite her youth, seemed so strong and sure of herself (maybe too much at times).

"Easy there," Hogan said soothingly, trying to detangle himself from her. He felt like the world's lowest cad for subjecting a teenaged girl to this. "It's okay. I'll see if I can get you out of here tomorrow. Just calm down. I know it's scary, but…"

"It's not that," she cut him off abruptly. Pulling back, she swiped at her eyes. Hogan noticed her fingernails were broken from her attempts to find and open the tunnel entrance—not possible when it was secured from the tunnel side of the block.

"Then what is it?"

"That's my brother! I saw him when they brought me in. Hochstetter has my brother and he's going to hurt him! We have to help him." Iron America didn't quite shout.

"Your brother?"

"Byakugan."

Hogan nodded slowly. "Byakugan is your brother," he said dully. Rocking back on his heels, Hogan raised his eyes heavenwards, silently demanding an explanation as to why he was being punished so. No divine answer was forthcoming. "Byakugan is your brother," Hogan repeated, convincing himself. "Of course he is." It explained so much. Iron America and Byakugan were sister and brother. Two of a kind.

"Why me?" Hogan muttered, rubbing his forehead, the headache back in force.

"We have to save him," Iron America insisted. Hogan made the mistake of looking up into her wide, wet eyes.

So much for eliminating the Byakugan problem quickly and without sentiment.

Damn.

* * *

"All right," Hogan said, not quite knowing how to break the news to his team, "we have to get Byakugan out _alive_…"

"But why?" several asked at once. Carter said mournfully, "I'd worked out this great way to…"

Hogan waved his hand to stop him. "He's Iron America's brother—" Eyes rolled at that bit of news. "—and, well… we just have to." He heaved a sigh. "What's more we have to keep the Gestapo from realizing he's escaped. They have to think he's… _gone_."

"Gone?" Kinchloe repeated, his eyebrows drawing together. "You mean disappeared, don't you, Colonel? The time traveler/magician vanishes into time, right?"

"Exactly, Kinch," Hogan said. "And right before their eyes. I want you to coordinate the details and the timing." Standing, Hogan moved to stand behind Newkirk and Carter. He draped an arm over each of their shoulders. "Newkirk, it's going to take one of your best magic tricks to pull off a disappearance onstage in front of armed Gestapo guards. And Carter, we'll need your best, _non-lethal_ pyrotechnics."

Hogan straightened. "So… Tomorrow night we have Klink's party with Linda, Jessica, and Tuttle, with the three of them working on Hochstetter and the scientists. We have Jake scouting for the lab with Tiger. We have Niente, Cat, and Olsen on their way to England to break the news that the Nazis have time travel and we have no idea how to stop them. We have Byakugan 'vanishing' into time. And we have the opportunity to finally get at the time travel device in Klink's safe." He grinned. "Just another ordinary day in the life of a POW in Stalag 13."

Heading toward his office, he paused in the doorway, turning to dryly add, "I can't imagine how anyone could turn all of this into some sort of comedy program."


	37. IronAmerica Part 5

**IronAmerica - 5**

Almost as soon as I had gotten into the cooler, I saw the cell holding a disheveled looking guy. I managed to trip, klutz that I am, so I could get a better look. Oh shit. This isn't good. This isn't good at all. The jumpy corporal that was escorting me shoved me with his rifle, obviously telling me to get a move on. I must pause here to admit that I have extremely poor impulse control. "Lay off, ass hole!" Uh, yeah. As previously stated, I have absolutely NO impulse control. I have a new bruise to attest to that. Joy, oh joy.

As soon as the corporal (Langenscheidt?) shoved me into one of the solitary cells, I began searching for the trapdoor that's always present in the shows. I don't know how long I was scrabbling around on the floor looking for that darn thing, but I do know that I won't be winning any beauty contests anytime soon. I tore out my nails, finding plenty of hairline cracks, but unfortunately, not the one I was looking for.

Think, Dasha, think. Where would you place a tunnel entrance if you didn't want it found? I sat back on my heels, chewing on my lower lip. I had to find that tunnel. My big brother's life might depend on it. Where, where, where? It's gotta be here. It was always there in the shows. They can't have left it out. It's too important.

After another few moments of self-pity, I looked out the window. The sun had disappeared beyond the window, which I took to mean it was well past dusk. I still haven't gotten used to the replacement watch that the guys gave me. They said my digital watch was too conspicuous. They probably also wanted to take it apart. If they screw up the circuitry, I'm going to maim one of them, or cause an extremely personal injury.

I started searching for the tunnel entrance after the cooler guard left what passed for food. I do like potato soup, especially my mom's. But this wasn't potato soup. It was more like potato glue. But hey, I won't complain. I'll eat almost anything, except for certain vegetables and two day old brioche. That stuff is nasty after the first day.

After another hour of ripping my nails off, I was ready to call it quits. Until Colonel Hogan popped out of the tunnel. I couldn't help it. I was so relieved to see him that I just threw myself into his arms, blubbering. I will deny it to my dying day. But I was genuinely blubbering.

Hogan tried to calm me. "Easy there. It's okay. I'll see if I can get you out of here tomorrow. Just calm down. I know it's scary, but…" I continued to cry, feeling terrible.

"It's not that" I mumbled, cutting him off. He had to have things explained to him. I'm not afraid of the dark, if that's what he thought this was about. I wiped my eyes, noticing for the first time that my finger tips were bleeding. Hmm. I'll just deal with those later.

"Then what is it?"

"That's my brother! I saw him when they brought me in. Hochstetter has my brother and he's going to hurt him! We have to help him." I was practically yelling and not caring about it. Colonel Hogan had to help Devon.

"Your brother?"

"Byakugan."

Hogan looked supremely annoyed at that. Was it something I said? I hope he understands. Devon's always looked out for me, whether he wanted to or not, so now it's my turn. I had to get him away from Hochstetter.

I looked at Colonel Hogan, and a line from one of my favorite books came to mind. A reasonable man. _I am a reasonable man._ He definitely fits the description of Admiral Kolhammer, one of the stars of Weapons Of Choice.

"Byakugan is your brother." He looks really unhappy now. "Byakugan is your brother. Of course he is. Why me?" He asks, sighing.

"We have to save him," I insist.

Hogan looks up, and sees my big, misty eyes. He groans softly, and all I can think is: Bingo. Oh, yeah. No impulse control to speak of. Colonel Hogan climbs back into the tunnel, and says that he'll try to arrange my early release from the cooler.

I go back to the semi-normal cot and lay down, hoping to get a little rest before tomorrow. I'll deal with tomorrow, tomorrow.

* * *

True to his word, Colonel Hogan gets me out early. I wonder what he did? I immediately go on guard, and assume my new identity. I got a look at my dog tags, and mentally curse Newkirk and Carter. Ray White, not Rhys Whitis. Oh, well. I chose the last name for sentimental reasons, and the first for absolutely no reason at all, other than the fact that it sounded cool.

Still, I'm out, and I'm not complaining, and Colonel Hogan must have a plan. I've studied him extensively during my many viewings of the show, and he has that, that certain, well, look, to him. It's like you can almost see the gears in his brain whirring at supersonic speed. It's extremely weird, and somewhat frightening.

I'm also not paying attention, and go flying face first into the dirt. I push myself up, and spit out a mouthful of dirt. Looking around, I see a big guy looking down at me.

"You okay kid?" I nod, yes, I'm all right. He sticks out a hand and pulls me up.

"Thanks," I say, grinning. I brush off the dirt that I can, and rub my nose out of reflex. I still think that my glasses are there. "Who're you?"

The giant smiles, and says, "Corporal James." His voice drops to a whisper. "IronAmerica?" I look around to make sure that no one's looking, and reply, "You're one of my shadows?"

Corporal James nods, and drapes his arm around my shoulder. It take a lot of self restraint to keep from hitting him. Reading micro-biology textbooks is not good for your mental health, just as a side note. "C'mon private. I'll show you the ropes." He pulls me off towards the rec hall, and I follow, interested.

* * *

I have never played so much volley ball in my life. After showing me what all was in the rec hall (and how to work some of it), Corporal James got me in to a volley ball game. I have to say that the opposing teams captain will never look at me in the same way. Whenever I play any type of sports, I have two options for my team that I'm playing on: distance, or height. Sometimes I'll get a combination of the two, and by some miracle(or Divine Intervention), I can add accuracy to the mix.

After the game winds down, Colonel Hogan appears out of nowhere. He motions towards Barracks Two, and I follow, feeling some trepidation. As soon as we get into the barracks, he turns to face me.

"Well, you've done a fairly good job of blending in." Oh. My. God. Was that a compliment? From Colonel Hogan? Wow.

"We have come to a decision, regarding your… brother. Byakugan," Colonel Hogan says, looking as though something had died. "We'll get him out, but we're going to have to make him vanish effectively." He looks at me, and then at the door to the barracks. The other four troop in, including dearest Peter.

"We're going to get him out. Against our better judgment, of course." Gee, what a way to ruin my day. "We need to know anything that you may know that can help us. Things like how his things, the more…exotic things work."

I raise my eyebrow at that. "The exotic things? Huh. Um, sir, Colonel Hogan?" He looks at me. "I'm not exactly sure how most of it works. It cost a small fortune for most of that stuff that he has, so he wouldn't really let me use it. Maybe the knifes and the things like flash powder. And his home-made flamethrower," I add, grinning. "I can use the flamethrower really good. It just needs a little bit of fine tuning. But it works," I add hastily, seeing the look on Hogan's face. Now why do I get the feeling that he would really like to cause me bodily harm?

Carter looks at me, and I can see that he has an enormous grin in place. "How did he make the flamethrower? And how does his flash powder work? I mean I've tried-"

"Carter." Carter stops talking. Nevertheless, Hogan looks back at me. "Um, I'll need a blow torch, and a can of cooking spray, or some type of compressed air can with gas." Thank you, Byakugan, for showing me that lovely little trick with the cooking spray and a match. "Also sir. I have a question." Colonel Hogan looks at me, looking just a little ticked. "Why do you need my help? I mean, you've got Carter, and Newkirk. Carter's pretty much the best demolitionist under the sun, and Peter is probably one of the best magicians in the camp. I'm just a teenage girl from the future, who has very little practical knowledge."

Colonel Hogan looks happy for the first time since I'd arrived. "You're right. We don't need your help. However, we are going to need your help to convince your brother. His gear, and his clothing, suggest that he is entirely to sympathetic to the enemy powers."

"Huh? Enemy- Oh." It hits me then what he's talking about. All the Japanese stuff. I need to remember that the Japanese are members of the Axis powers. "Um, he actually isn't. Japan is probably one of our best friends in the future. They've also got some pretty good baseball players." Stunning revelation, and I've just caused a paradox. Here's my 'oh shit' moment for the day.

"Umm, never mind. Moving on. Byu doesn't really take sides, as far as I know." I blaze on, trying to get past my previous screw-up. "He just likes Japanese stuff. I don't see a problem there. Sir. In my time, it's almost impossible to go anywhere without seeing some sort of foreign, non-European, influence. My hometown has a Japanese restaurant, and a Chinese restaurant, and one from India. What I'm trying to say, Colonel, is that my brother is just your average American."

Now Colonel Hogan has a look on his face somewhere between consternation and bafflement. "You have a Jap restaurant. In your hometown. Run by Japs?" He has a seriously disbelieving look on his face. It takes all of my limited self-restraint to keep from jumping up and decking Colonel Hogan. I start counting to ten under my breath. "Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete, ocho, nueve, diez. Un, deux, trois, quatre cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix." I stop counting, and look up. "Colonel Hogan, while I understand that you are at war with the Japanese, there is no call for you to be using a racial slur like that. I honestly thought that you were better than that."

I see Colonel Hogan drawing his hand back. I brace to take the blow. "Took ya long enough. Seriously though," I taut him, "I honestly thought that you, of all people, wouldn't stoop to using racist terms like that. You have to be one of the most forward thinking men of your time, and you can still stoop to something like that."

Hogan looks like he's sucking on a lemon, and also pretty angry. He clenches his hand into a fist, but drops it to his side. "Miss, I will try very hard to understand you, for God knows what reason. But the fact remains that I am in charge. NOT you. Disrespect of a senior officer could get you tossed into the guard house, or court-martialed." Great. Now he's pulling the UCMJ stunt on me.

I salute stiffly, glaring right back at him. "Yes, Colonel Hogan. I realize that. I'll see what I can do for your rescue mission. By your leave, sir." I turn in a perfect about face (thank-you Mr. McKee), and walk out of the barracks just as stiffly.


	38. Olsen by Cat and Niente

**Olsen**

**as told by Cat and Niente Zero**

Sgt. Olsen closed the door to Hogan's office, stepping into the main barracks room, and smiled. So they were going to London, eh? He was a little disappointed when Hogan told him he would no longer be 'son' to Jessica. He was enjoying escorting her around town and actually able to talk to someone when he was 'home.' Not that he had told her everything, but, still, someone who he could let his guard down perhaps a bit. Then again, going to London, yeah, that more than made up for everything; even if it was temporary.

Hogan had notified London to have the sub ready to pick up three packages, so they'd be making their way to the coast. The real problem Olsen figured would be Niente and Cat Ballou. They both seem to be a bit on the sobby side, so he'd have to take extra caution on the trip. Plus, Niente seemed to be a little upset with Cat. Well, whatever the problem between them was, hopefully they'd put it aside for the trip. They couldn't afford the luxury of personal squabbles right now.

It was a good sign that Cat wasn't upset when Niente was honored by the grateful men of Barracks Two with a medal: the golden needle with silver bobbin clusters. Awarded for, as Newkirk had put it, 'for darning above and beyond the call of duty.' The medal was actually a small pin made up in one of the tunnels various metal workshops.

The night they were leaving, Olsen made sure the two women had their papers and looked them over to make sure they would pass for German civilians. They both had been outfitted in traveling suits and coats. Odd that neither had been dressed for the winter weather. Hogan was giving them their last minute orders, confirming they understood in case of any danger, Olsen would be talking and they would obey any commands he made. Gratefully, they accepted Olsen as the leader of this expedition. That was the one point Olsen was worried about. Women of the future seemed to be a stubborn lot, if this bunch was anything to go by.

After being reassured they knew what they were supposed to do once in London, they were out of the tunnel. It would take at least three days to reach the coast for the sub. Hogan had told London to expect them in four days (to account for any unforeseen circumstances). It would be a tight schedule, but they had to make it. Yes, they would, Olsen decided, if he had to carry both of them.

Keeping to the woods or away from any towns or cities seemed the best bet Olsen decided. Especially after the incident outside of Hammelburg. They had spotted some German soldiers kicking and beating a woman. They didn't know why the Germans were after the woman, but Niente and Cat wanted to help.

Olsen was adamant. Pulling them both into the safety of an out-of-sight a walled garden, he sternly told them both: "No! My orders are to get you two to London safely. It doesn't matter what your feelings are right now. If Hogan and Jessica are right, we may save more than one woman. You are going to have to get used to the idea; we can't save everyone. No matter how much we want to, we just can't."

Grudgingly, they both agreed. They continued on. Feeling like a louse even though it was for their own good, Olsen tried to get them to open up a bit the next night during a cold dinner in an abandoned barn, but the realization of the dangers seemed to subdue them. If they harbored any doubts about the situation being real, they didn't any longer, Olsen realized. Well, maybe that meant that the fighting was for something. Niente and Cat obviously lived in a world where public beatings, bombings and people being taken in the middle of the night weren't common. At least for them.

The cover of moving to Cat's ( or Katrina's, which is what her identification papers said) sister's house after their home had been bombed worked with the small number of people they had met on the road. Olsen was glad that both Cat and Niente had 'developed' some rather bad coughs, which saved them from talking all but a few words of German. He was beginning to respect both of them more and more with each day. They didn't complain about the conditions of the food, or sleeping arrangements no matter what they thought of them. Niente commented to Cat that they still had rationing to look forward to in London, but she seemed more wryly amused at the prospect of setting up housekeeping on rare tins of beef and powdered eggs than deeply concerned.

It wasn't until they arrived in London the real trouble began. They were initially interrogated on the train from the coast to London. The major who did the questioning seemed rather incredulous with their story. It was worse in Headquarters. Even with Hogan's reputation, the brass didn't want to believe the fact that somehow time travel had become real. Olsen was about to bet they would all be placed in the hospital for psychiatric examination when Cat looked exasperated and grabbed a pad of paper from one of the officers sitting near her and scribbled a few words on it. Folding the paper, she shoved it toward General Williams the ranking American there. Contemptuously, he took it and opened it up. Paling while he read it, he showed it to the other Allied officers there.

"Major Davis, show Sergeant Olsen and Miss Nenty out. We'll speak with Miss Ballou alone." Olsen looked at Niente and Cat. For once, Cat looked self-assured. Niente followed Olsen and the men out of the room.

Niente sat with Olsen in an antechamber. She looked paler than she had in Germany. Remembering that she had been staunch and relatively good at following orders, Olsen indulged in a little sympathy.

"All right there?" he asked, not unkindly.

Niente swallowed and shook her head. "Sorry, I'm just really bad with bureaucrats. I mean, I was terrified when we were wandering around hostile territory, don't get me wrong. But there's terrified, then there's officially terrified, and these guys are pretty official."

Olsen couldn't lie; it wasn't unreasonable to be scared. If their story wasn't believed, the women would probably be treated as spies. The interrogation on the train had been brusque to say the least. During the time that they were jointly questioned, Olsen noticed that Niente seemed firmly determined to keep a blank face and not volunteer information. If he hadn't been convinced that she was one of the ones from the future, as crazy as that was, he might have been suspicious that she was hiding something. As it was, he had reason to wonder if, although the future was bright on the women not being beaten in public front, there was a good reason for the average citizen of the future to be tight-lipped around police types. The girls, well, women, were universally keeping mum about the political shape of the future, but he could draw some conclusions.

It wasn't until a few hours later they all came out. "We'll let Hogan know he's got free rein with this… uh, project. You three will be liaisons with Papa Bear. We'll get you settled in quarters and you'll take over radio duty; overseen by our people of course."

"So, just what did you say to them to get them to believe all this?" Olsen asked Cat while they were leaving the interrogation room.

"Can't tell you. But, let's just say some stories I remembered my father telling me while he was in London came in handy."

"Blackmail?"

"No, not quite. I just remembered Dad worked in Military Intelligence during the war. So I was able to give them information no one should have had in this time. Turns out that it was exactly what they had just decided on this morning."

Olsen smiled. "That was one hell of a chance."

"No, not really, I knew they'd believe me. The only time I win at poker is when I'm trying to get out of the game, and, boy, do I want out of here!"

Niente swallowed her relief down and wiped sweat off her palms. "Fine." she said, although it was a non-sequitur. "What do we do now? There must be a bar somewhere in London that didn't get bombed out yet. I need a drink. Or are we being frog-marched direct to our quarters?"


	39. GSJessica Part 4

**GSJessica – 4  
****(with Tuttle-dialog by Tuttle)**

Like me, I think Linda and Tuttle had discovered the expected terror and excitement of venturing forth into the heart Nazi Germany—as spies, no less!—in reality was just a bit bland.

That's not to say they, and I, weren't feeling a sense of tension and heightened awareness. We were. It's just that it wasn't as all-consuming as expected. You see, on television, in movies, and in books and stories, we see the highlights. All the greatest moments of danger and drama are condensed. The ordinary moments aren't shown. So in the television show we'd have half an hour of action (minus commercials) distilled out of a week's worth of life. I worked it out. It was a ratio of about 350 to 1. The '1' was out there waiting to terrify us, but we still had to live that '350'. And that span of time, while sometimes odd or interesting, was rather ordinary on the whole.

As for Hammelburg… people just _lived_. The war hadn't reached this area too much. There had been none of the massive bombing raids this far in to Germany yet. I tried to remember the history. The big raids on Regensburg and Schweinfurt, not far from here, wouldn't be until late this summer.

The sabotage—Hogan's and the Underground's—was intermittent, and not having a major impact on the townspeople. They'd been under Nazi rule for a decade. It wasn't new to them. Kids had grown up with it and embraced it. The adults either agreed, or had learned to keep their mouths shut. As far as I could tell, there never had been any Jewish population in the area, so the elimination of that portion of the population really hadn't made a ripple of impact on the town. For the people of Hammelburg, it was mostly a case of 'someone else, somewhere else'. Life continued here largely undisturbed. Few had ventured near the POW camp outside of town, and the prisoner work details had become routine. The sun shone. Children played. Women hung out clothes. Farmers planted and harvested. People shopped and ate and worked. It was all disturbingly mundane.

Linda and Tuttle were feeling the tension far more than I as we arrived back to Olsen's house. I casually tossed the keys on the table near the door, hung up my hat and coat, and started showing them around just as I might anywhere or when, before I realized they were standing stock still, breathing heavily. Right. I'd been here for two months. I'd acclimated, more or less. They'd just had their first look at Hammelburg, the real Hammelburg: 1943 Nazi edition.

They got over it, and rather faster than I had when I first arrived. Tuttle was endlessly adaptable, with any fear lost, or hidden, in a spate of jokes and puns—only about a third of which I understood. My sense of humor, such as it is, is rather dry in the first place, on top of which I'd been living with Germans, and as a German, for two months. Let's face it, that branch of my ancestry does not lean toward the humorous.

And Linda… well, she'd researched this area and era to pieces and probably knew it better than most people knew their own home towns. She dived right into the discovery, examining and noting every detail of this authentic—_utterly authentic_—1943 German house. Umm… utterly authentic, that is, until she latched onto my mascara tube by the bathroom sink and waved it at me accusingly.

Yes. I admit it. Okay. I confess. I'd been shedding anachronisms all over this house, beyond those intentionally placed in Operation Breadcrumbs.

Have you ever seen 1940's mascara??

Gross. Black cake that makes runny raccoon eyes. Put on with a little comb thing. Newkirk showed me how to do it, but I ditched that stuff right away. No man on earth is going to notice if I'm wearing contemporary, historically accurate mascara or not.

But, I digress. Acclimated and settled in to the era after two months here I might be, but still not truly part of the era; more like a tourist who blends in well. Yet, if the Gestapo ever searched this house thoroughly the game would be over. But, then, hadn't I expected that would happen from the start?

With little time to let them settle in, Linda and I started to get ready for our—I mean _my_—date with Klink. "Think Captain Picard but with a Mr. Peanut monocle," I said to Linda and Tuttle when they gave me _that look_again. "What's not to like there? Starship captain or Luftwaffe colonel, practically the same thing. Add in Mr. Peanut. Salty goodness. Huh?" Not my best argument, I admit. I could see Tuttle grinning and winding up for the comebacks like I'd just handed her a huge gift-wrapped present.

"Boldly going where no peanuts have gone before, eh?" Tuttle scrunched her nose and shook her head. "You know, too much salt is bad for your health. Better make sure your lips aren't chapped- salt stings. And-"

"…and no, Tuttle, there has not been any kissing," I huffed after one of her lively comments had me blushing. I should _not_ have said 'salty goodness'.

"Yeah, right. Listen, just don't bring it here. There's a lovely park down the street. How about getting a canoe and-"

"And no 'canoe trips'," I added, intercepting her follow up question.

"Longship?" she suggested. "Probably suits Klink more anyway. He's got that Hun feel to him- but what am I telling you for?! You've felt him more than I have!" She suddenly shook her head. "Ew, I think I just threw up in my mouth. Really, Klink?"

Gosh darn it! Was it such a stretch to imagine someone could find Klink genuinely… well, not quite attractive, but… let's say interesting and intriguing.

"Go… go read some German cereal boxes or something," I finally told her, after another string of teasing comments. "Or put that maid's costume to good use and clean the house." That one didn't go over well, though it gave Linda a smile.

"Maybe I will," she said, crossing her arms over her chest and sticking out her tongue rather childishly. "But don't expect any mints on _your_ pillow."

Linda chose a different outfit for me than the one I intended to wear. It was rather more suggestive (and I knew of what!) than the one I had chosen. I know I've said Klink was an okay guy and I liked him, but he did have that ingrained pilot's wolfishness, much like Hogan had if rather less effective, and I really didn't want things getting carried away. She may be an actress, but I'm not. I wasn't at all sure I could improvise such a scene without putting my virtue in peril. Not to mention life and limb.

As we crowded around the mirror, doing ourselves up in 1940's style hair and makeup, Linda and I ran through our plan together.

"Don't forget I am using my grandmother's name as my cover name," I said.

"What is it?" Linda asked, curling and pinning her hair easily into the style that had taken me days to master. The theater background helped, I suppose.

"Wilhelmina Brosch," I said.

"Wilhelmina?" Tuttle echoed from the bathroom doorway. "Wilhelmina and Wilhelm?" That provoked peels of laughter and more Tuttle-esque comments."Klink won't even have to change the monograms on his towels! It was meant to be! Soul mates!"

"I didn't think of that when I picked the name. I just wanted something German I could remember." How could Tuttle make me blush so?! I was a grown-up, mature woman, for pity's sake. Could she do this to everyone? It was a gift. A cursed gift.

I should probably mention Linda and I kept up a running conversation throughout the afternoon as we prepared. It was in a combination of German and French, using as little English as possible, with me picking up and refreshing as much French as I could, and Linda doing likewise with her "World War II German". As language crash courses go, it was an odd and faintly desperate one, knowing we had only these few hours for rehearsal before the big show. We emphasized words and phrases from Linda's anticipated 'script' of how she thought the evening would go as we convinced Klink to have a party tomorrow night with us, and those scientists, at Stalag 13.

"I go by Collette, in French classes, by the way," she told me. "It's what Newkirk put on my papers, too." I repeated it over and over. I'm bad with names, so with some life-or-death pressure thrown in, plus several intertwined foreign languages, and I thought it very likely that name would flee my mind at a critical moment.

"I didn't see what name he put on mine," Tuttle commented, digging for her papers.

"Mimi," I said, trying to adjust the neckline of the dress Linda selected for me just a tad higher.

"That's a horrible name. Newkirk's not that evil." Tuttle pulled out the papers and checked. "It is Mimi. Did he tell you that?"

"No. But in that outfit you'd just have to be a Mimi," I said.

"Leave the jokes to the professionals, okay?"

I looked at her more seriously. "Be careful. Stay in the house. Don't blow up the house with the stove. Remember you have to light it with a match."

"The stove's like that big thing in the kitchen, right?" She said in a valley-girl voice. Rolling her eyes, she continued with a hint of indignation. "Listen, thanks, Captain Obvious, but I'll be fine." Meeting my serious look, her grin faded. "Really."

I could have warned her about the Gestapo, or snooping Hitler Youth on alert to turn in anyone disloyal, but why? She knew those risks, as did Linda and I.

Linda and I exchanged a long look at the door as we prepared to go out. How did Hogan and his men do this, live with this, every single day for years?

We walked the several blocks to the Hofbrau. At the door we paused for a steeling breath, then entered. I scanned the room, looking for Klink. Linda was doing the same. I spotted him and took a step forward.

Then I saw who was with him. God help us. Hochstetter.


	40. Hochstetter's Chapter 4

**Hochstetter's Chapter 4  
by Hexiva**

"Come, Herr Byakugan," said Hochstetter smoothly, "You seemed eager enough to sell out your countrymen earlier."

"I didn't sell them out, no matter what it may have looked like to you," said Byakugan. Hochstetter tried to avoid looking at that grin. It was starting to worry him.

"Really? I wonder what it looked like to Colonel Hogan." Hochstetter had said variations on these words for long enough to manage them with no difficulty. He carefully emphasized the English word for Oberst. He wanted Byakugan to feel guilty.

"I don't care what it seemed like to Hogan," said Byakugan calmly.

Hochstetter deviated from his often-recited lines. "You do not . . .work with Hogan," he tried to ask.

"No."

"Who do you work for?" Back to the script.

"Myself."

"You are a . . ._ach . . ." _Switching to German, Hochstetter turned to one of the guards. "Go and ask Klink if he has anyone who speaks English very well. Don't let him volunteer unless there is no-one else available."

He returned to Byakugan.

"How did you get here?" he demanded. "How do you know Hogan. How . . ." he faltered, and changed his question to "How do you open that box of yours? It seems to burn people."

Byakugan's odd grin widened. "I can't tell you that."

"Oh? What is in it that . . .What is it?"

"I can't tell you that either."

"Why not?"

"Well, if I tell you why I can't tell you it, that would be to same as telling you it, wouldn't it?" The boy grinned.

Hochstetter's gesture was only a slight movement of the hand, but the guard, who was used to this, recognized it for what it was. He struck out with a foot, knocking Byakugan down.

"You will tell me," said Hochstetter, and gestured again, more obviously. The blow fell on the boy's head.

"Not too hard," he cautioned the guard. "We need him healthy enough to talk."

The guard nodded. He was careful to avoid Byakugan's head.

Hochstetter watched silently for a time, then said, "You can stop it at any time, you know. All you have to do is talk with me . . ."

Byakugan shook his head fervently.

Hochstetter grinned. "Carry on," he told the guard, and turned to Herzer.

The physicist was leaning against the wall, looking sick.

"Oh, no," Hochstetter said, "You haven't got the stomach flu, too, have you?"

"Now that you mention it, I do feel a little queasy." Herzer paused, and then said, fearfully, "Do you think this is necessary?"

"What?" Hochstetter asked, and then saw Herzer's eyes flick to the writhing Byakugan. _It's a different kind of sickness you've got, Herr Doktor, _he realized. "Of course it's necessary!"

"Naturally, I want to know how he got here as much as you do, but isn't there some other way?"

Hochstetter glared at him. "What other way would you take?"

Herzer floundered. "Well--"

"Exactly." Hochstetter cut him off. "There is none."

As the Gestapo officer turned back to Byakugan and continued his interrogation, Herzer averted his eyes. He knew there was an answer to his question, but for the life of him he couldn't come up with it.

The cell door clanked, and both Hochstetter and Herzer looked up as Colonel Klink scurried in. Hochstetter's face twisted.

"You said you needed a translator!" the Kommandant trilled.

"No-one else in this camp speaks English?" Hochstetter said, disbelieving.

"No, Herr Major. Except for Schultz, that is. And Schultz is, well, he is--"

"I know, I know!" Hochstetter snapped. "'All of the best men are at the front!'"

Klink looked indignant, but quickly wiped it from his face.

"Ask the prisoner where he's from!" said Herzer, his natural curiosity overcoming his pity for Hochstetter's victim.

Klink translated.

"The future," said Byakugan, giving the words a dramatic flourish despite his demeaning position on the floor. It hardly needed translating.

"What does he mean?" Klink asked.

"Ask him what happens after the war!" Herzer ordered, ignoring the question.

"What? Herr Doktor, you can't possibly mean the _future--" _

"Ask!" Hochstetter snapped.

Byagan's grin came back, albeit from a bruised and bleeding mouth. "Hitler kills himself. America wipes Hiroshima and Nagasaki off the map. Russia and America divide up Germany. Swastikas are illegal in Germany."

Klink faltered halfway through his translation. "Major, this can't be true!"

"We have no way of knowing whether or not he is lying," said Herzer with a calmness that surprised him. Although he was starting to have some . . .doubts about National Socialism, Germany was his country, and the idea of foreign soldiers marching through German streets should have disturbed him. He could tell Hochstetter had been hit hard by the knowledge. And yet he felt nothing.

Hochstetter glared at Byakugan. "Hit him," he snapped to the guard. Byakugan, who had managed to get to his feet, doubled up, clutching his stomach.

"Again," Hochstetter hissed.

"Again!"

"Again!"

"Lies. You can't trust an American, not on something like this. Why would he tell me the truth so directly? He has to be lying.

"Even if he's telling the truth, what of it? Who says the future can't be changed? He said that I would die four days after I killed Hogan. So what happens if I don't do that? Hogan goes free, that's what happens. I'd lose any chance of stopping him. I might even get arrested for it.

"He has to be lying!" Hochstetter stopped, realizing that he had been speaking his thoughts aloud for several minutes. He curtly dismissed Klink who exited the Cooler hastily.

Entering the cell where Byakugan's items were kept, he tried to calm himself. Hochstetter cast around the room for something else to think about. His eyes fell on Byakugan's costume. He walked over to it and slipped the ornate glove onto his hand. It was a bit loose, but he was able to curl his fingers into a fist and hold it up.

There was a knock on the door. Hochstetter yanked the glove off and kicked it away, feeling silly.

"What is it?" he asked, hoping his voice didn't show his embarrassment.

An SS corporal entered. "There's been a . . . commotion, sir. We've captured a girl; a civilian, we think."

"Was she carrying any weapons?" Hochstetter asked eagerly. "Anything suspicious?"

"Not exactly, sir. This was the only thing she had." He held up a pale blue book.

Hochstetter peered at it. "'Warriors?'" he said, reading it off of the cover.

"Yes, sir."

Hochstetter glanced out the window towards the Cooler, and saw Klink and Hogan standing near a staffcar.

"Lock her in the Cooler with the other one," Hochstetter said distractedly, and shoved passed the corporal on his way out to the compound to forestall whatever disaster Hogan was plotting.

"Wilhemina and Wilhelm. What a pair!" Hochstetter heard the American officer say.

"A pair of what?" said Hochstetter suspiciously, glaring at Klink. The man had been chatting with a dangerous saboteur as if they were old friends. "Where are you going, Klink?"

"To town," said Klink defensively.

"On a date!" said Hogan, cheerfully.

_Why doesn't Klink have him shot? _Hochstetter wondered, imagining how Hogan's grin would fade if he heard that news.

"Say, maybe the widow has a friend," Hogan added, "A friend who likes Gestapo officers?"

"No one likes Gesta--" Klink visibly clamped his mouth shut on the end of that sentence. "I'll ask her."

"Thank you, Herr Kommandant," Hochstetter said, restraining the urge to smack Klink right in the face. "I'll ask her myself. Move over."

"Enjoy!" said Hogan chirpily. Hochstetter started mentally cataloguing all of the things he could do to Hogan that couldn't possibly be interpreted as 'execution.'


	41. Tuttle4077 Part 5

**Tuttle - 5**

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" I called as Linda and Jessica- no, Collette and Wilhelmina- started out the door.

"And what wouldn't you do?" Jessica asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Well… I guess I wouldn't be dating Klink in the first place. So there goes that. Just… don't kiss him or anything! And if you do, don't tell me! It'll give me nightmares for the rest of my life."

Jessica rolled her eyes. "Good night, Tuttle," she said, sounding exasperated, before she and Linda opened the door and walked off into the street.

After they left, I let out a sigh and flopped myself on the couch. What to do, what to do? No television. No computer. No nothing!

With another little sigh, I looked around. Nothing to do. Bored, bored, bored. So bored! I bored, he bored, she bored. All aboard! Man over-board!

My foot tapped on the floor as I sat. It was too quiet! Too quiet! I had seven siblings- there was _always_ noise in my house. And if there wasn't- if I ever found myself fortunate enough to be alone- I made noise! I eyed the radio in the corner of the room. Something told me German music from the 1940s wasn't really made to jam out to.

Scrunching my nose, I looked around. What did people in 1943 do for fun?! A bookshelf caught my attention, and I ambled up to it, only to find the books were in German. Figured. I let out a little grunt. I could always cook something. I loved cooking. But glancing at the stove, I changed my mind. I'd never had to light a gas stove before and with my luck, I really would blow up the whole house.

I moved to the window and peeked past the curtain, looking down at the street below. It wasn't too dark out, I could go for a walk. No, Jessica had told me to stay in the house. Besides, just going for an evening stroll by myself was probably a little suspicious to anyone watching.

Blowing a raspberry, I decided I would tidy the house. Though I had put up a fuss when Jessica had jokingly suggested it- it made her and Linda smile to think they had gotten me- I really didn't mind cleaning. It gave me a chance to think. And living with these two, I had little doubt that the house might actually stay clean and tidy for more than an hour!

And so, I went to work, humming to myself as I tidied and thought.

What were Linda and Jessica up to now? How was Jessica's- _cough_- date with Klink going? I shivered. As much as she claimed Klink to be a gentleman and as much as I realized that he was probably smarter than on the show, he was still Klink. Klink!

Another shiver crawled up my spine. I would have to schmooze up to that lot too, at the party. My Mom always said I was a serial flirt- something I never failed to mention was an inherited trait- but I drew the line somewhere- namely my friend's weirdo brother and Nazi scientists.

Anyway, I'd probably just be reduced to smiling and batting my eyes. I didn't speak German after all and even if I could, I didn't think my jokes would translate well.

A knock on the door nearly made me hit the roof. Grabbing my heart, I steadied myself. Who in the heck was that?

Glancing quickly at my watch, I decided it was too early for Jessica and Linda to be back. Actually, I wouldn't blame them for being home early with Klink for company. But still, if it were them, why would they knock?

There was another knock. Was it the Gestapo? Was there an army outside, waiting to shoot me down?!

"Oh girl, get a grip," I muttered to myself. Pulling myself together, I lifted my head and strode confidently to the door, mentally reminding myself that I was Mimi Renault, French maid. My hand shook as it grabbed onto the door handle. With a deep breath, I opened the door. And let out a sigh of relief.

"Bonsoir monsieur," I greeted with a little curtsy. Ah man, I should've been an actress! Carter gave me a funny look and gave me a little nod before stepping in. "S'up, Carter."

"S'up?"

"Yeah, what's shakin', bacon?"

"You sure talk funny," Carter said slowly. "Anyone ever tell you that?"

I let out a pathetic sigh and shrugged my shoulders. "Plenty. It's the sad, sad result of my insanity."

Carter looked a little afraid. "Are _all_ girls from the future like you? I mean, Miss Jessica and Miss Linda are-"

"Old?" Oh, what a jerk.

"Yeah- no! I mean, they aren't that old. But what I mean is-"

"Forget it. I'll try and be sane, just for you. Now, what brings you here? Come to save me from boredom?"

"I was hoping Miss Linda and Miss Jessica were here," Carter said hopefully, looking around.

"You just _miss_ed them," I said, followed by a groan. That was beyond stupid. "Why?"

"There's been a little hiccup," Carter explained.

"Sugar?"

"What?" Carter looked confused. I opened my mouth, but he held a finger up. "Never mind. When do you expect them back?"

"Who knows." I shrugged. "They left less than an hour ago."

"Should I wait for them?" Carter asked, though it sounded like he was asking himself and not me.

"Sure, why not?" I answered anyway. "Heck, if you turn on the oven for me, I'll make you some dinner."

Carter looked as if he'd rather face a Gestapo interrogation. "Uh, no thanks. Actually, I probably should go. I'll come back when I'm done."

"Done what?" I asked, my curiosity piqued. "Got a bridge to blow up?"

Carter blinked and looked uneasy. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess, I guess," I said with a shrug. "Can I come with you?"

He shifted nervously. "Gee, I don't know."

Sensing his hesitation, I practically threw myself onto my knees and begged. "Please Carter! You can't keep me in here! I'm going crazy here! I-"

"Going?" Carter interrupted with a grin.

"Hey, don't give me that sass! And yes, I'll go crazy cooped up here! No television, no computer, no siblings to torment! Please let me go with you!"

"Well, I don't know. Colonel Hogan might-"

"Listen, Carter, if nothing else, it'll be valuable research for my next story. I can see if the show got you right- you know, see if you really do trip over every rock in the forest and botch every assignment!"

That got him- I knew it would. Carter wasn't a proud man, but he had pride. "Is that how they show me?" he asked, offended. I just gave a little shrug. "Botch assignments? It was one time! And Newkirk's made mistakes too. Boy, has he made some real big ones! And LeBeau too! And I'm the one to go down in history as the biggest dope ever, right?!"

"Well, I wouldn't say the _biggest_ dope." I pressed on before he could get angrier. Boy, he was working himself up into a regular tizzy! "Come on, let's prove 'em wrong."

"Yeah, okay!" he huffed. And with that, he grabbed my arm and headed for the door.


	42. Byakugan Part 3

**Byakugan - 3**

It was dinner time. Everyone important, but my four guards, were off at some shindig in the village. Herzer had left, too. Funny how those thing work out. Herzer was pretty cool though, an over-eager physicist with a fetish for the unknown. My short conversations with him (between the beatings Hochstetter and his goons called an interrogation) were stimulating. I'm pretty sure we both learned a few things about science.

I looked over at the guards. There was my meal. Set on the bench in front of them. Figures, I sighed, Hochstetter has them doing the eat-in front-of-your-captive thing again. At least they haven't put their feet in it again. Yet.

It had been several days since I was brought in and the little troll was not happy. He had yet to understand anything I had told him no matter how straight forward. I'm sure the unabashed amusement I displayed each session wasn't helping me any.

I reclined uncomfortably in my new grey jump suit and decided to wait them out. It's not like I'm exactly hungry at the moment; punches to the stomach tend to leave you rather queasy for hours. Especially when the one doing the punching has all the finesse of a mule, I reminisced, rubbing my stomach and making the guards snicker. I've been hit with a step behind sidekick full power to the gut before but that is nothing compared to the bruiser Hochstetter is keeping on retainer. Maybe that was because there was no empty space to recoil in. Hmm.

Then something weird started to happen; the guards began falling asleep.

Hogan, I though suddenly. Got to be. Sure enough, seemingly a blink later there he was. The man himself. Again.

He was looking me over with multiple curious expressions flitting through his eyes in rapid, seemingly cyclical succession.

"Come to kill me, Colonel?" I asked, grinning through blood-stained teeth. He frowned.

"No, I suppose not yet. You want to know what my connection to the others is," I said. A twitch under his left eye. "Odd, I didn't think my sister was here yet, the camp is still standing."

"I thought that would be more in your line of expertise," Hogan murmured. "She has been one killer of a headache, but she has yet to be a threat of your level. And how did you come to those conclusions? I had you pegged as the suicidal insane type, not the observant calculator"

I smiled sadly, "Well," I said, ignoring the dig, "I assumed you were here to kill me because I have been a rather big security risk and with the scope of your current operation-- the show doesn't quite do you justice by the way-- killing someone like me is only logical. Your frown at my suggestion implied that you hadn't decided to do that, at least not yet, so that suggested you wanted to know more about me. The tick under your eye further suggested that you had heard a fair deal about me so, taking into account my only connection to this group of misfits is IronAmerica, my sister, I assume she would have had to have seen me. I assume it was when they transferred me from my cozy cell to this…zoo?"

He had an odd look on his face after that but I decided to ignore it.

I scooted forward on the bench in order to lie down properly. "So why are you here, Colonel? Casing the joint?"

"Thinking," he replied calmly.

"You already have tunnels riddling this place, so what's there to think about?" I said, thoroughly amused. Probably how to make it look like an accident, I thought, smirking. This would be one for the record books, killed by the great Hogan.

"There are factors…" he murmured, looking around slowly. One of the guards began to shift in his sleep and Hogan walked over beside him and pressed a finger to his neck. The man presently calmed down and went back to snoring as Hogan walked back to what I assumed was the trap door. He seemed to be searching for something.

"How exactly does your equipment work?" he asked suddenly.

"You meant the stuff that's still usable after the time skip? Chemistry and misdirection mostly. If you need a way to bust me out in a suitable fashion there are a fair number of useful items in my weapons pouches. They're on my jeans." I gestured to the cell slightly to the right of my guards. "That's where they put all of my stuff. They've been cautious about touching my supplies since one of the trapped items started burning anyone who touched it." I chuckled suddenly. "Earned me a nasty beating when I wouldn't tell them what was in it and, moreover, how to open the damn thing without blisters."

Hogan looked at me suddenly.

"Blisters?" he said, apparently remembering something.

"Yeah, the ponce himself seemed to think it was some sort of 'mystical test of worthiness' to be allowed the contents," I said alternately coughing and laughing, near hysteria. After calming down and seeing the look the man was giving me I grinned again. "I never did figure out how he came to the conclusion that I use magic." I took a slight pause to regain my breath. "As to the blistering there's a simple liniment worked into the wood of the casing. The chemicals agitate the skin and as it evaporates it's highly flammable. That's why it's used in absorptive materials. The moron was smoking a cigar at the time. Simply use thick imperforated gloves and turn the four kanji symbols so that they face the bottom rather than the lid. And be careful with the contents, it's expensive."

He looked at me strangely as he went over to the cell and started picking the lock. He returned presently holding m the aforementioned box and my shirt; I raised an eyebrow at him.

"Most of your gear isn't there," he said, handing me the wrapped box. "For the most part there seem to be a lot of small containers, your shirt and a bunch of weird knifes."

"Kunai."

"What?"

"Wrapped handle, ring on one end, spear shaped blade on the other, It's called a kunai. They're throwing knives."

Hogan nodded, apparently filing that detail away for later. He watched me intently as I turned the symbols upside down and slowly twisted the lid, revealing a glittering powder. "So, why is that powder so valuable?" Hogan asked, bemused. "It just looks like crushed glass."

I scowled at him in disgust. "It's Gen'ei yuge, a powder formed from a rare Japanese mountain flower and it's VERY expensive. The translation is illusionist's breath. When inhaled this powder messes with the mind and renders the target susceptible to suggestion. Whisper something into an affected person's ear and it becomes reality for a period of…30 minutes? It depends on how much they breathe in. 30 minutes is a deep breath."

Suddenly very interested, Hogan opened his mouth to ask something else. He paused as I reapplied the seal. "So, it seems you are useful for something, then again, you didn't use any of your gear to get out of this situation so maybe I was right about you after all." Man, this guy enjoyed making me feel like shit.

"You should join the Gestapo, Colonel. Hochstetter and his goons have nothing on you. I'll go back to the beatings, thanks."

"Your sister was fairly adamant that you be freed; don't push your luck…son."

"I'm twenty, Colonel. I'm not exactly a boy. Then again, this is sixty-five years ago so I guess it doesn't matter." I grinned madly at the last sentence.

"Are you insane, kid?"

"Not entirely. My sister could certainly give me a run for my money, and you don't seem to think too badly of her." His eyebrow started twitching madly, a vein pulsing and I raised my own eyebrow in response, "Then again…" I murmured slowly.

Hogan seemed to be getting agitated. "Hogan-sama, go back to the room and get some of the powders from the box make of bamboo, the yellow one. It has some more immediately useful powders in it. For you, at least. Mix them together in water or blow them together and they'll start glowing." I lay back down exhausted and closed my eyes. "Hogan," I called as he moved off, "take care if her." I never did find out if he replied, or got the mentioned powders, as I asked having promptly drifted off. At least he left me my shirt, I thought as I slept. I like that shirt.


	43. Hexiva Part 1

**Hexiva - 1  
****What century **_**is **_**this?**

It began, quite innocently, during a field trip to Washington, DC's National Archives. I was separated from my group--not entirely on accident, for I hate field trips and I knew exactly where I could meet up with them after the tour was over-- and I sat down to read the book I had brought in case of just such an _unlikely _event.

As I read, I swung my feet idly. My foot connected with something hard. This is not the first time this has happened, often resulting in a bruise, but usually I don't simultaneously fall out of my chair.

This time, I hit the ground hard, butt first. I flinched and scrambled around on the suddenly very rough and cold ground, trying to get to my feet. I was in a darkness vaguely shaded by torchlight.

"Hello?" I said timidly, hearing my voice echo around me.

Then the cold hit me.

I sat down, and then stood up again hurriedly as the cold ground touched me. _Where am I? The National Archives' fridge?_

"Hello? Is anybody there?" I called out, louder this time, hearing my voice shake from the fear and cold.

Slowly, I started walking in a random direction. I didn't know where I was going; all I knew was that I was cold and alone, and that it was too dark to read my book very well.

About a half hour later, I went insane. I saw someone come down the tunnel, and I hurried forward to meet him, not recognizing him at first. Then it clicked.

Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin and rumpled jacket. Every inch Colonel Hogan-- every inch a character from an impossible, inaccurate TV show from before I was born.

I screamed, turned around, and started running.

The tunnels seem to go on forever. I thought Hogan the American officer was chasing me, although on reflection he would certainly have caught me if that had been so. When at last I, panting heavily, came to a ladder and the end of the tunnels, it seemed the most natural thing in a very unnatural world to clamber up and into blessed _light_.

I stopped, collapsing on the closed tunnel entrance and looking around myself. I was suddenly in the middle of a forest that I was _certain _was nowhere near the National Archives.

I think I got a few moments of peace then, trying to convince myself that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for what had just happened, before I looked up and saw the tall guard towers and barbed wire looming above me.

I would have started running again if I could have, but I had waited too long; the SS had me surrounded.

I know this seems to be an insane statement, but it's the truth, I swear.

They wore grey and black uniforms with sig runes on one collar tab and rank insignia on the other. I could hardly have mistaken them for anything but what they were.

One of them, a corporal, I think, snapped something in German. My German, poor enough under the best of situations, completely failed me then.

"What?" I said. "Ah . . ._Was_?"

The corporal snapped something to the men behind him. It definitely contained the word _Englischer, _and possibly _toten, _but that may have been my imagination playing tricks on me there.

"What's going on?" I asked helplessly. "Who are you?"

"_Hände hoch!_" snapped the corporal, gesturing with his rifle. My hands shot up.

He gave another order in German, and I gathered that I was to follow him. I obeyed.

The cell I was thrown into was already occupied. The young man in it was wearing a grey, featureless suit. Bruises circled his neck in a sort of morbid necklace. He blinked blearily at me.

"Sprechen Sie Englisch?" I asked, trying to pronounce it correctly.

"I'm American," he said, and I nodded, relieved.

"How did you end up here?" I asked, doing my best to ignore the bruises. It seemed impolite to say anything directly about them.

"It's complicated," he said shortly, "How did _you _end up here? You don't look like the average prisoner."

I imagine my expression at that time must have been _fascinating. _"What do you mean, _average prisoner?" _

The man shrugged. "I don't imagine they get many girls here."

"Are there _many _prisoners here?" I asked, disregarding his statement.

He gave me a puzzled look. "It's a prison camp, isn't it? Did the watch drop you here, too?"

"Huh?" I said, inching away from him. _Perhaps it's an insane asylum, and he's one of the inmates._

"The watch. You know, the golden thing."

I looked around. Nothing in the cell could possibly be interpreted as golden, unless you counted the contents of the privy. "What golden thing?" I said.

"If you're not from the 21st century, where _are _you from?" he asked, puzzled.

I remembered the Nazi guards. "What century _is _this?" I said cautiously.

"The 20th," the man said.

I swallowed. "Er . . . You mean like the 1900s?"

"1943."

I had the feeling that Rod Serling was about to step around a corner. _Deedle, deedle._

"How?" I said, snagging one question out of the growing mass of them.

He explained.

Apparently he had had no better luck than I, having fallen directly into the middle of a Nazi conference. That wasn't the really strange part, though-- apparently the man I had seen, down in the tunnels, was, indeed, Colonel Hogan. I winced at that part, remembering my flight.

"Hogan didn't tell you this, did he?" I asked when the man was done, remembering _War Takes a Holiday._

"No, why?"

"And he didn't help you . . . clarify it?"

"No. Who do you think I am, Klink?"

"I _hope _not," I said, which was probably quite tactless. Certainly he didn't say anything to me after that.

I sat and thought. I was terrified of the Nazis, because I had a fairly good idea of what they could do to me, and that fueled the ugly, creeping thought that crept up on me.

Staring at the dull, grey walls, I watched the horrible plan unfold in my mind. The worst part is, I know I can do it, and probably do it well-- nothing I was carrying could incriminate me.

I don't think I shall be able to talk to Byakugan. I couldn't bear it, in light of that plan.


	44. Linda and GSJessica

**Linda and GSJessica**

**Linda:**

I feel a tiny thrill of fear as I see Klink for the first time, standing at that door. There's no mistaking it—that's him. Mr. Peanut? No... not really. But, something is definitely different from the way I'm used to seeing him on television. He stands straighter, a little more confidently. Maybe it's an act. Who knows?

The man he enters with, while a little bit shorter, is actually quite striking in his darker uniform. His face is... sculpted. He has thick dark hair, a trim moustache, and he isn't bad looking, either.

Ohmigawd. He's in a Gestapo uniform, I suddenly realize. Did I just check out Major Hochstetter? I swallow hard to stop the gag reflex suddenly upon me and I nudge Jessica. _"Là," _I say. _There._

Jessica nods and visibly straightens. _"D'accord,"_ she replies. I nod approval. The accent isn't perfect, but the word is right. Then she mutters something in German that I recall as being slightly impolite, but which reminds me to paste a smile on my face. And to check that my clothes are suitably appealing. My stomach turns at the thought now, even though that man with Klink is no one to sneeze at. _Just let me be wrong about who he is,_ I pray.

Klink spots Jessica immediately and his face lights up. It gives me that sick feeling that I get even when I watch him on television. Can't help it. Klink on the move makes me queasy. Here he comes... and whoever that is with him.

I steal a sideways glance at Jessica, who is smiling, and, frighteningly to me, she doesn't seem to be faking it, either. I always thought I'd like Klink, but at this very moment I don't, and I can't see where this genuine smile is coming from on her part! He comes right to her side and beams down at her. _"Liebling,"_ he says. _Oh, barf._

Jessica smiles back at him, and in German, German that I can only make out in bits and pieces, she introduces me as her cousin. Klink's smile widens and he takes my hand and grandly places a kiss on it. _"Gnädige Dame," _he says in German.

"_Enchanté,"_ I reply, one side of my lips curving up. That _is _rather gallant. _God help me; what on __**earth **__am I doing here?_

Colonel Klink then says something in German that I can't quite make out, but which ends in the words "Major Hochstetter." Apparently he's introducing the man next to him, because the stance of his companion suddenly transforms from leering at me in a slightly distant, superior way, to moving in with an almost greedy once-or-twice-over. I smile, hoping I don't appear as uncomfortable as I have suddenly become, and nod politely. Nice eyes, I notice irrelevantly. _Geez, __**stop**__ that!_

I'm trying to think how I can make this easier—one way would be to speak in English, which I know they speak, but which might not go over very well. Unless I told them that I was a can-can girl in Paris and I met a lot of Americans before the war. But these legs? Yeah, someone would believe _that_. I can fake the French accent with the English words… wish I had thought of that before. Maybe in the next meeting.

Jessica is jabbering along in German as Major Hochstetter moves in closer to me so that he's beside me, and it's not long before we're all heading to a cozy little table to sit down. Boy, girl, boy, girl. Oh, boy.

"_Ein Bier, Fräulein?"_ Major Hochstetter asks solicitously. He smiles and his hand seems to reach across the corner of the table toward mine.

I quickly (and I hope oh-so-innocent-lookingly) raise my hands as if in surprised pleasure and laugh. _"Ah, non! Nein,"_ I reply. _"Je ne prends jamais de l'alcohol!!"_ I wave a hand in front of my face as if I'm flushed. _"C'est terrible pour… ooh… pour moi. Ooh, la, la!"_ I finish, laughing, and putting on a show of being, possibly falsely, demure. Hoping that it's being as suggestive as it needs to be that I might be a bit looser than some very innocent people… say… like my real self… are. I don't drink. Ever. Not because of what it will do to me (I have no idea); I just don't like the taste. Never have, never will.

The Major laughs accommodatingly. Klink suggests a hot cocoa. The word for chocolate is almost universal, at least to me, and I laugh a genuine laugh of delight as I recall the, "I would really prefer a cup of cocoa!" line from one of the episodes.

"_Merci, Colonel,"_ I say. Then, as charmingly as I can to both men, _"Danke."_

"_Ah, Sie versucht zu Deutsch sprechen!_" Klink says. "_Sehr gut, Fräulein Cosette,_" he approves with a nod.

I look questioningly at my "cousin" Jessica, who nods. _"D'accord,"_ she says to me.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

Cosette? Cosette? Oh, my God. _Cosette_?! Is that what I introduced her name as? Or did Linda call herself Cosette? Or did Klink get the name wrong? I thought the name Linda told me was "Collette". Had I messed up the name already? Now I couldn't call her by any name until I found out which was which or I might blow our cover. A 'cousin' who didn't know her name, indeed! Since we walked in I'd been talking much too fast to cover my nervousness, now I clamped onto my wine glass—wishing it was something stronger, like schnapps—and sipped to have something to do other than babble. It didn't seem to matter. Klink was always happy to fill any gaps in conversation and Hochstetter's attention was wholly fixed on Collette. Cosette. Ack!

"_Bon,"_ said Major Hochstetter. He looked at Klink and smiled slightly at the surprised look on Klink's face. "I have been exposed to other languages, Colonel Klink. You know German is not my only language. I speak English, and a small bit of French." Hochstetter turned back to Linda and smiled warmly. She smiled back, and this time allowed him to take one of her hands in his. "At least enough to try and help this lovely lady feel comfortable with us, who are strangers."

Linda couldn't possibly have understood more than two words of what Hochstetter said, but she smiled at Hochstetter like he'd just charmed the pants off of her. Um… maybe another expression would be more appropriate, considering that was clearly and exactly what Hochstetter had in mind. And Linda! She's a freaking amazing actress. I swear she was actually checking Hochstetter out like she really thought he was hot and attractive there at first, and still acted like she wasn't totally repulsed by the little toad. It turned my stomach. Granted this real-Hochstetter _was_ rather more ruggedly handsome than the TV-Hochstetter. But so was Klink, though somehow only I seemed able to see that.

All this took place only as a flitting side-track of thought over the screaming panic-filled thoughts filling my head since we walked into the Hofbrau. _"D'accord,"_ had become the only word of French I could remember. For some bizarre reason the words to order a margarita, or ask for directions to the library, in _Spanish_ popped up crystal clear in my mind, but all that remained of my painful French refresher course was "_D'accord"_—"okay", a useful enough word, but only in rather limited ways.

The basic problem of how exactly it is that Linda and I are cousins who can't communicate with each other seemed glaringly bright to me just now. I had never let on to Klink that I spoke English, and he'd never mentioned he did as well. Why would he? To the best of his knowledge we were both Germans. Unlike the television show, English spoken with a German accent didn't pass as real German here-and-now. Frankly, I was afraid to let slip in even a word of English, even in my thoughts. That was part of my uneasiness tonight. For the previous two months I'd been totally immersed in German; speaking, thinking, dreaming in it. Then the past couple days, with the new arrivals from the future, I'd had to use English again. It tangled things up and I was mortally afraid I'd change languages without even realizing it.

In front of Klink, such a slip might pass as something charming. In front of Hochstetter… Thoughts of all the things the Nazis, the SS, and the Gestapo represented flashed through my mind, as did the black and white films of the victims of Dachau. The idea I might see those scenes in living color chilled me to the core. As I gulped down the last of my wine, I realized I was staring at the lightning bolt SS insignia on Hochstetter's uniform. Moreover, Klink realized I was staring at Hochstetter.

"My dear," he murmured, his hand closing over mine. "Dance with me," he said softly, drawing me up.

I let Klink lead me away from the table, catching Linda's vaguely alarmed glance as I abandoned her alone with Hochstetter. Then she smiled again, laughed lightly and convincingly, as she and Hochstetter continued their conversation in pigeon French/German.

Fortunately the band was playing a slow waltz that let Klink pull me in close and, more importantly, covered the fact that neither of us could dance worth a darn. As before when we'd danced, we mostly just swayed back and forth with the music, occasionally shuffling our feet.

"Don't be afraid of that man," Wilhelm… ahem, I mean _Klink_… told me quietly when we were out of Hochstetter's earshot.

His words, his understanding, and the outright kindness in his tone set me to trembling. Let me tell you, since I'd arrived in this unreal reality two months ago I'd been scared more times than I could count. Tonight, however, I realized for the first time how thoroughly over my head I was in all this, and how very, very easy it would be to make a fatal mistake.

I leaned my head against Klink's chest, unabashedly taking comfort in his strength (Strength? Klink? Yes.). "I'm not afraid," I managed after a minute.

He stroked my hair, and it wasn't at all a come-on gesture. "Yes, you are," Klink said. "Everyone is afraid of _them_." His voice took on a disgusted tone as he said it. "But with me, my dear, you don't need to fear that man."

I tilted my head up, looking at him, amazed. Klink was either truly not afraid of Hochstetter, or he was lying with magnificent believability. The television show would have us believe Klink turned into a quivering mass of jelly whenever confronted by the Gestapo and Hochstetter. I'd already concluded the TV show had been written by someone who wanted Klink to look worse than he was (Hogan?), but this was a key point. Was this bravado to impress his lady-friend? Or real courage? Oh, I hoped it was real! We might need it at some point before this was over.

I smiled up at Wilhelm, finding him genuinely attractive just then. I really always had liked Captain Picard. Buoyed up and confident again, I took Klink's hand as we headed back to rejoin Linda and the little Borg.

* * *

**Linda:**

I've struggled with difficult dialogue before, but this is ridiculous. Major Hochstetter is trying so very hard to be nice (a mind-boggling concept at best), but once Jessica goes off dancing with Klink (oh, God, is she actually... _leaning her head on his chest_??), I'm left with a man who I cannot understand remotely, and who scares the living daylights out of me. I hope my nervous smile looks like I'm thrilled to bits.

I laugh lightly again, tilt my head slightly, part my lips in an inviting, hopefully luscious-looking way. _"Je regrette que je ne puisse pas vous comprendre!"_ I say, batting my eyelashes. I'm not kidding—I really _don't_ understand him, and I _am_ kind of sorry, because it would make life much easier. _"S'il vous plaît, parlez-vous français du tout?"_ Maybe he'll speak French. Or better yet... stop talking.

"_Ah, Cosette—parles-__**tu **__français!" _he corrects me.

Oh, yuk. He wants me to use the more familiar, instead of the more formal and polite. I smile charmingly. _"Ah, oui. Parles-tu?"_ I repeat, perhaps a little weakly.

"_Un petit peu,"_ he says. Oh. A little bit. _"Malheureusement, mon anglais est mieux." _Ah, ha! His English is better? Did I just get an opening?

"_Anglais?" _I repeat. _Careful... _I think very carefully about a character I just played opposite in a production that required a French accent before I open my mouth. "I... speak... English. A little good." I shrug my shoulders as if to show my self-consciousness about my limited ability.

The hesitant statement from me elicits a broad smile for Hochstetter. "A little good, indeed, _Fräulein_," he praises. "Let us talk in English, yes?"

"Oh... _d'accord_," I say, trying to seem as unsure in English as in German. "I will try."

"Very good," he agrees, nodding. "Are you hungry?"

"Oh... a little," I answer. And so he starts explaining different types of foods to me from the little menu as my mind wanders way out of the room. I hear noodles... and cabbage... and no matter what I agree to, it's not going to have cabbage in it! My eyes surreptitiously wander toward Jessica and Klink. _Hurry up and come back here!_ I seem to try to urge them. I have almost tuned him out, but Hochstetter's tone indicates the end of a sentence, so I look back at him and smile, forcing that into my eyes, somehow, and wondering fleetingly how Colonel Hogan manages this all the time. And then wondering how in heaven's name he faces Hochstetter all the time—there's no way Hochstetter is trying to wine and dine him, which makes it a much more dangerous outing for Colonel Hogan by a long shot.

"_Le fromage_—the cheese plate—it sounds nice," I say approvingly.

"Ah, an excellent choice, _Mademoiselle_," the Major replies, trying his very hardest to be charming. "Cheese is _Käse_ in German. Can you say that? _Käse_."

"_Käse,"_ I repeat dutifully.

"_Wunderbar;_ you are a fast learner," Hochstetter says, as though I've just learned the most important word in the German language. He is clearly pleased that I am apparently so accommodating.

I sit back a little in my chair and shake my head as though to move my hair out of the way as I notice his eyes slide downward toward my cleavage. _Hurry up, Wilhelmina... get your German butt back here and save me from this way too surreal encounter!_

* * *

**GSJessica:**

"We've found a common language at last," Hochstetter announced, in German, as Klink and I arrived back to the table. "Mademoiselle Cosette—" I guess we're going with Cosette, I thought, mentally recommitting the name to memory, praying it stuck this time. "—speaks some English, it turns out. So you can speak with her, Colonel." His beady little eyes narrowed as he appraised me. Klink's hand tightened on mine in a supportive way as he felt me automatically tense as Hochstetter's attention focused on me. "I'm not sure about FrauBrosch…" He left the not-quite-question hanging and I realized I'd just had a micro-glimpse of a Hochstetter/Gestapo interrogation moment. I think he must have done that to Hogan a lot; put out statements and waited for Hogan to hang himself with them.

In my best acting moment yet, in that I didn't break Hochstetter's gaze, but caught a glimpse of Linda's nod from the corner of my eye. I smiled—probably not convincingly—at the Borg-toad and said, "Ja_._ I speak a bit Englisch." I desperately tried to slather on the accent; to sound the way some of my relatives used to sound. My brothers and I did used to mimic them sometimes. Could I call that back up after forty-odd years? "Englisch is…" I waved my hand in the air and looked up to the ceiling as though hunting for a word. "…It is how Li… Cosette and I most talk zusammen." I ended with the German word for "together" because at that moment I literally could not remember the English word. Oh my God! I'd almost called her 'Linda'. Even Collette would have been a better gaff to make.

Klink expressed surprise that I spoke English and I re-emphasized the "little bit" part. He at once switched to English—the first time I'd heard him speak it since arriving here-and-now—and he did sound very like Werner Klemperer in the television show. Not quite the same, though. The real Klink had a bit less of that flat American intonation, and slightly more of a British tone. It made sense. Most Europeans, especially in this era, learned British-English.

Hochstetter sounded wholly German. Linda was doing a convincing French accent. And I tried to keep my mouth full of the sauerbraten and spaetzle (Excellent! I do recommend the Hofbrau.) at moments the conversation turned toward me. I really didn't have to turn glutton to do it. Klink was always more than happy to fill out both sides of our conversation, whereas Hochstetter remained fixated on Linda, nudging his chair closer and closer to hers, which caused Klink to do the same thing with me on our side of the table. Two alpha wolves after their prey in an unstated competition.

Returning, more or less, to our prearranged script, I innocently asked Klink about the "rumors" I'd heard about the exciting goings-on at Stalag 13. Ever happy to talk about his beloved Stalag 13 (he really did love that place), Klink launched off on an indiscrete narrative about the scientists and the mysterious man in the cooler… Huh?! I glanced toward Linda, but she was fully focused on Hochstetter. I heard her say the word "party" in French, letting Hochstetter provide the German and English words. His tone was approving, so I knew she was on track for our mission.

My attention split between two conversations in three languages, I had to rewind to catch up on what Klink was telling me about this strange man Hochstetter had brought into Stalag 13, with bizarre clothing and maybe magical potions. Magical? Byakugan, he claimed his name was. Another of our group? I knew of no one by that name, nor matching that description. Could this Byakugan be the genuine time traveler who started this whole mess? If so, he could be our ticket back. He'd know how the time travel device worked and so—if we could get the gadget—could send us back home. One catch… well, two… Hochstetter had both this Byakugan and the time travel device. The planned party—set up to get the device from Klink's safe, or if that was a fake planted as bait (it just had to be fake), or get a lead to the laboratory—was going to become much more complicated and high-stakes than before. We had to get this Byakugan out. I'd bet Hogan had already figured this out and had a plan. Linda and I just had to continue to do our part here.

"Goodness," I said, batting my eyes at Klink and leaning forward so he could see better down my top. I hoped to fish for more information without revealing our own out-of-time status and, let's face it, men are men whenever you are. "He sounds like he came from King Arthur's court. Maybe Merlin the Wizard traveled through time." Oh… gulp! Would a German have invoked King Arthur, the classic English tale? Or should I have used some German tale? All I could think of was Grimm's "Aschenputtel", and the Cinderella story wouldn't work in this case.

Never mind. Klink didn't twitch over the reference, though he did twitch admirably over the view down my dress. Stumbling a bit over his words, which he seemed to be having trouble constructing into coherent sentences for a moment, he said, "A wizard. Some of those scientists think he might be that. But Herzer thinks he's just an ordinary time traveler." Klink laughed with fake heartiness. I noticed it caught half of Hochstetter's attention. "_Ordinary_," Klink echoed himself. "As if a time traveler could be 'ordinary'. But this Byakugan does claim to be from the future. Why, when I was translating for the Major…"

At that the Major's attention shifted completely from Linda to Klink. "Herr Kommandant!" Hochstetter hissed. Whoever wrote that for Hochstetter in the television show got it dead right. A low growl followed the hiss. Inappropriate as it was, and scared as I was, it still gave me a tiny "squee!" moment.

Right then, Linda did something that made me realize why she's an actress. She "squee"d. All right, it wasn't _exactly_ a "squee," but it was definitely a high-pitched, feminine, delighted gesture that included a laugh and the drawing of her clasped hands up to her cheek like she could positively swoon. Her eyes positively shone as she totally caught Hochstetter off-guard and he was startled into looking back at her. _"Ooh, j'aime l'idée de sorciers,__"_ she gushed. "Please, please do not be mad on me."

There went those little eyelashes, batting away. And suddenly Hochstetter was relaxed again. He smiled warmly (creepily) and moved his chair even closer to Linda's, if that was possible without getting on the other side of her. "Of course not, my dear," he said with a frightening charm. "It is simply that Colonel Klink is speaking... how do you say... _avant qu'il pense_."

"Oh," Linda said, with a perfectly executed embarrassed little laugh. "I am sorry, _Monsieur Le Kommandant_," she said with a shy nod toward Klink.

Klink had cut himself off mid-word with a gulp at Hochstetter's growl. "That is perfectly fine, Mademoiselle," he replied with a small smile. "And please—call me Wilhelm." Then he turned back to me. "Your pardon, my dear," he said; "we must keep our military secrets."

"Secrets?" I echoed, I hoped innocently. "This fairy tale, it delightful sounds." I had decided to speak English with German sentence order. I wished Linda and I had prepped for this. Improv wasn't my thing. "To see this wizard… _wunderbar_. How fun!"

Hochstetter briefly resumed his glowering in Klink's direction. Then Linda… Cosette… put in, "_Oui. Ja._ To have these scientists at our party, dear Wolfgang, we must. And magic time man… _merveilleux_!"

Hochstetter glanced toward Linda, briefly dropping his Klink-scowling. Then his head snapped back and his expression was lost. Klink did the same. Even I did a double-take. Had some part of her outfit disappeared during this interlude? My goodness. Even I couldn't be sure. I hadn't heard the _skitch_ of velcro tearing apart, but there did seem to be rather more of Linda's, um… anatomy… visible than before.

In that moment Hochstetter was lost, and we had won; won our mission objective, at least for now. The party was on, to be held in Klink's quarters at Stalag 13. The scientists would be attending. And we might get a look at the time traveler. Linda and I exchanged a glance. So far, despite the unexpected appearance of the Gestapo in the form of Hochstetter, we'd managed to pull off our assignment. Hopefully, after that party we'd have the time travel device and the time traveler who knew how to operate it, and we could return from this dark, all too real, nightmare to home.

We relaxed and let the evening continue with meaningless small talk and flirting. The men got a bit tipsy, and more amorous. Linda and I didn't and held them at bay. If not for the swastikas and mortal danger, it would have been a rather typical date.

_BOOM! _

The Hofbrau shuddered. Glasses tinkled. A trickle of dust fell from the ceiling.

_BOOM!_ Boom. Boom.

More distant explosions sounded. Linda and I looked around, bewildered. Klink seemed totally nonplussed, barely pausing the World War I dogfighting story he was telling. But Hochstetter became blackly dangerous and cold sober in an instant. He leapt to his feet, brow furrowed as he fixed on the direction the explosions had come from. "The Underground," he snapped. Then we heard him mutter much lower, "Hogan."

All business, now, Hochstetter turned to Klink, and said, in German, "See the women arrive home safely. We'll be rounding up anyone out on the streets." Then he turned to Linda, his demeanor softening, and he kissed her hand, murmuring, "_Mademoiselle._ We will meet again." It would have been charming, had it not also been so ominous coming from him. Linda simply smiled silently, her eyes somehow telegraphing an absolute desire to be with this monster again.

Then Hochstetter marched out, with a deadly purpose in his stance.

Well, I thought, as we gathered our belongings and I translated for Linda what Hochstetter had said about rounding people up, at least we didn't have to worry about Tuttle. She was home and safe.

* * *

_GSJessica NOTE:_ The part about me getting Linda's Cosette/Collette alias wrong was an utterly genuine moment of reality in this story. Linda told me "Cosette" via email. I didn't go back and check when I wrote my previous chapter and wrote "Collette" instead. So when I got Linda's section I had the reaction written here.


	45. Niente Zero in London

**Ninete Zero - London**

We were in London. Not like I hadn't been there before. Or, actually, technically speaking, after. Time travel paradoxes make my head hurt. Which is why I was quietly plotting to stage my own damn time travel paradox. The thing was, how to find Granny? Because my grandfather was important, but she was his bit on the side, so that might make things tricky. But first, there was housekeeping to set up. We'd been billeted in part of a Victorian house, in a street that had already lost houses to the bombing.

We were shown the ropes by a sweet young lady, one Mavis Newkirk. Yes, that Newkirk. And I daren't say a word to her about what was going on. She was just lending a hand, making sure the new girls (as we were to spend time as radio operators) had what we needed. We must have seemed strange to her, but I remembered my grandmother's stories of what it was like to arrive in Tasmania after the war. Those self-satisfied biddies who'd sit around and whinge about how hard it was to think of how to make three different meat meals a day when over in London (and that was 1950, but things were still lean, so very lean) the children were half-starved and had no idea what fresh meat looked like. My aunt, the one who was born during the war, never had my mother's healthy constitution, and no wonder. So I just played the ignorant colonial for all it was worth as Mavis explained the joys of ration coupons and when it was best to try to queue at the shops, and I was thankful that we shouldn't be stuck here forever, because I doubted I had the patience for it. And I doubted I'd resist the temptation of the black market forever.

We'd been given money, for what that was worth. There weren't any shops open, of course, by the time we settled in. Mavis was kind enough to make sure we had some basics so we wouldn't go hungry. I can cook, and if I put my hand to it, clean. The place certainly needed cleaning. There was dust all over. No surprise there, either. Mavis also showed us the bomb shelter, and lectured us very firmly on listening to the air raid wardens and the sirens. The reality hit me pretty hard. We had to make our part of the mission work. For the sake of everyone, not just so we could get home safely. A world in which London didn't bloom again and rebuild to the beauty it would be in my future was unthinkable.

The first night, all I did was clean. Some people say it helps them to settle, but mostly I needed something familiar, and dusting is dusting. I made us what passed for scrambled eggs with the woeful powdered eggs, and we had biscuits - what the Americans would call cookies, except no American would acknowledge those woeful things as cookies, and bless Mavis, she'd given us a precious tin of cocoa powder and we had some powdered milk. It was enough to be a little bit like home, but I was already homesick for Le Beau's cooking, to be honest.

Radio duty. Blech. I am not cut out for following orders, and I was nervous as all hell about our cover, whatever that was. I mean, I know we'd told the truth, but at the same time I still felt like I had to keep up at least the behaviour of a good 1940s woman. I couldn't stand to be stared at or treated like a curiosity. I had four hours of radio duty the morning after we arrived. No messages came through from the Colonel, which was probably good. I had nerves, and running thoughts.

No sooner was I relieved from my shift than I set off on the grand personal quest. I guess they were short staffed enough that they didn't see the point of having us under escort at all times. Either that, or canny enough to watch from a distance. Either way, I headed toward our billet, and then veered off and found a bus to take me toward Hampstead.

Honestly, it was a wild guess. I mean, Granny had lived in Hampstead when Mum was born, but before that? I wasn't sure. But I had stayed in the area when Mum and I visited London, and I felt like I wouldn't be horribly lost. Even if I couldn't figure out how to find Granny (was she going by his name, or her maiden name? I had no idea!) I could look around and see what it was like. Mum says she was almost born in a taxi crossing Hampstead Heath. Of course, she was born three years after the end of the war, so she didn't mention that Hampstead Heath was in use at the time of the Blitz- an anti-aircraft battery and barrage balloons were being operated from the Heath. Made sense, it was a large, open area. But it also made for a fun explanation when I got off the bus and found myself wandering far too close to somewhere entirely off-limits to civilians. I talked myself out of trouble pretty quickly and booked it toward the centre of Hampstead proper.

Of course, that was nothing like I remembered, either. The whole city was a heartbreak. And of course, my grandmother- when I saw her standing outside a chemist's shop, my aunt in a big old pram - she was nothing like I remembered her, but exactly like those beautiful photos. She and her two sisters had been spectacular beauties in their youth, and although she was now in her thirties, her mass of dark hair and frankly patrician bone structure had aged well. I guess it was narrative inevitability that if I went looking for her, I'd find her. But I suddenly didn't know what to say.

I guessed I looked like nothing out of the ordinary, and I guessed if I went up to her and told her that I knew Claude, my grandfather, my hint of Tasmanian accent (that honestly, sounds much more like her than anyone else) would have been convincing enough. But then what?

How about "The man you're having an affair with is an unregenerate bastard, and you should leave him." Because that'd do wonders. And if it worked, then I'd not be born, and if I wasn't born, we'd have the full-on grandfather-killing (now THERE was a tempting thought) time paradox and god only knew what kind of mess that would leave Cat in. Irresponsible.

On the other hand, my grandmother was a vulnerable young thing when she met my grandfather, by her own account, and she'd probably just draw herself up to her full height, stare me down, tell me it couldn't possibly be my business, then bury anything I'd told her away not to be thought of, because he was her protector, her ticket away from all of this.

In the end I settled for walking up, coochie-cooing appropriately over the baby, my dear Aunt, and moving along. It wasn't satisfying, but really, what is? We had a job to do, and I might yet have time to find her again, find her and find the words to tell her things I thought she ought to know. Or I might come to my own damn senses and do no such thing.

In my head, I could hear a Greek Chorus of Heroes, not least the Colonel, telling me to pull myself together, remember the mission, get on with it, and leave well enough alone.

Ah, well.

So I headed back to the flat to see how Cat had got on.


	46. Tuttle Part 6

**Tuttle4077 - 6**

Oh, this was a bad idea. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad!

So what was a little boredom anyway?! Surely there were worse things in life. Like, for instance, pickles. Or a mystery novel with the ending torn out. Or Vogon poetry. Or the Gestapo. Or, you know, the Calgary Flames.

There. A nice, tidy list of everything that could be worse than a little mind-numbing, life-sucking boredom. And as Carter led me through the streets of Hammelburg, the list kept growing.

It was just downright creepy walking through the little town. I mean, Nazism belonged in the history books. And yet, there it was, right in front of me. Red flags with swastikas hung from a few buildings, the occasional soldier made his way past, and everyone spoke German. It was beyond surreal. It was going to take a while to get used to it. Hopefully, Hogan would find a way to get us back home before I had a chance.

Now, it's a sad, sad tale, but honestly, I'm the kind of person who can get lost in a telephone booth. And I was beginning to think, as we made our way through the town, that the reason I could get lost so easily was that I just didn't pay attention. I swear, one moment we were in Hammelburg, the next, I was trying to muddle my way through a thick, dark forest. I grabbed onto the back of Carter's jacket for fear of losing him. If I did, I'd be hooped.

Finally, Carter stopped and started to look around. "What is it?" I asked, trying to peer into the darkness. Carter jumped a bit and turned, putting his finger to his lips.

"Sh!"

"Oh right, sh! Wouldn't want the crickets overhearing us."

Carter scanned the area. "Might be patrols out."

Oh, right. Duh. "Sorry. I'll be quiet. What ya looking for?"

"My stuff. Funniest thing- I knew it left it around here somewhere," he muttered to himself. "It was right-" He took a few steps forward and suddenly tripped over something, crashing to the ground with a thud.

I grinned. That was the Carter I knew and loved. "You okay?" I asked, moving to help him.

"Found it," he said cheerfully, picking himself up. He crouched and moved a pile of leaves and braches off something. With a grin, he swung a box over to me. "Here, take this." I grabbed the box and watched as he carefully slung a pack over his shoulder.

I looked over the box. "The plunger?" I asked. Carter nodded. I pointed to his sack. "So that's-"

"Explosives. My own design!" Carter grinned. "Boy, this stuff, it could take out a whole city block. But it's really stable. I used-"

Carter babbled in a hushed tone as we walked. I didn't understand a single word he said. I just nodded and pretended to be impressed. Finally, it sounded like he was done. "That's pretty neat, Carter."

"Pretty neat? Is that all you can say?"

I shrugged. "I'm just a dumb girl, Carter. I've never even set off a firecracker. True story. Not that I don't appreciate a good fireworks show when I see one."

"Boy, you don't know what you're missing!"

Mindful of patrols, I stuck close to Carter- confident he knew what he was doing- while making an effort to be graceful. It was hard in the shoes I'd been given- they were definitely not as comfy and as worn-in as my runners. They really weren't shoes I would normally consider wearing while trekking through a forest.

Now for two chatterboxes like me and Carter, we were awful quiet. We had to be, I guess, but it was a ruddy shame. There were so many things I wanted to ask him. What was his family like? Where, exactly, was he from- Bullfrog, North Dakota or Muncie, Indiana? Was he ever a lieutenant? And if so, why was he made a sergeant and sent back to Stalag 13? How much sleep did he get when he had to pretend to be part of the German army? Was he really Nimrod?! Had half the things in the show actually happened in real life?! Was he really afraid of water as Hubbles had once speculated on our forums? Not that I really expected him to admit something like that- and I was definitely not bringing up some of the other speculation that floated around the forums. The poor guy would die of embarrassment!

The curiosity was eating me alive! I had to know and the guy with all the answers, or at least, some of the answers, was right in front of me. But, it'd have to wait. Maybe we could sit at the house and talk if we had time after the bridge and before Jessica and Linda got back from their dates (which brought up another question. What _did_ Jessica see in Klink? I would never know, no matter how much she tried to explain it to me).

Suddenly, my non-com companion stopped, causing me to crash into his back.

"Ouch! What are-"

"Shh!" he admonished, pointing ahead of him. I peeked past him, but I couldn't see a single thing.

"Listen, Bugs, you apparently eat more carrots than I do. I can't see a ruddy thing in the dark."

"The bridge's up ahead," he whispered, pointing. I followed his finger, peering past the trees. Sure enough, after the trees ended, there was a road and beyond that a dim outline of a bridge. "All right, I'm going to set up the explosive. You, sit, stay."

"What am I? A dog?"

Carter grinned mischievously. "Well, now that you mention it..."

"You know what, Carter, play dead and stay that way!" I groused.

Carter held up his hands in surrender. "Easy. Boy, you sure are a mean one."

"Well, lucky for you I have my rabies shots. Now go blow up your stupid bridge."

"I'll be back," he promised before creeping away.

I waited.

And waited.

The forest was full of noises. Innocent noises like crickets and a few owls and bushes rustling and the whistling wind and-and… And what was taking Carter so long anyway? The lunkhead probably tripped over his own big feet and fell into the river.

Finally, Carter was back beside me. "Oh there you are. Geez, took you long enough. I thought you knew what you were doing," I said in a teasing voice, though I sincerely meant every word.

"Patience is a virtue," Carter said with a grin.

"Since when? You're the most impatient person I know. Well, at least in the show you are."

"Hey, if you want a good explosion, you have to set it up right," he said as he connected the wires to the box I'd been hefting. "And boy, is this going to be a good one. They'll hear it clear to Berlin!"

"Fascinating," I replied dryly, though I had to grin. Carter's enthusiasm for explosions had always been one of his endearing qualities- fun to watch, fun to write, fun to read. "All right, go to it." I covered my ears and watched the bridge, waiting for Carter to push down the plunger.

"Not yet," Carter said.

"What're you waiting for?"

"The train." He held his wrist up, trying to catch his watch in the moonlight. "It should be here in about ten minutes."

"The train?" I repeated. "Going for a two for one deal, eh? Getting more bang for your buck?"

Carter grinned. "Yeah, something like that. There's a big shipment heading to the Eastern Front. Supplies, a few troops, ammu-"

"Troops?"

"Yeah. Intelligence says that the Germans are planning a big offensive and-"

"Troops," I repeated. "As in people. On the train? That we're blowing up?"

"Yeah. London says that they're going to try and push through the lines and take-"

I tuned Carter out. We were going to blow up people?! That wasn't part of the deal! People?! As in Johann Schmidt and Hans Dietrich and Fritz Wagner and-and-and- people?!

I couldn't let him do this! Even if I was just watching, I was part of this! I'd carried the plunger box for Pete Sakes!

I had to stop him, didn't I? I mean, the closest I had ever come to killing someone was when I was serving heart attacks on sesame seed buns! And here I was, waiting to blow up a train with people on it!

… And weapons and supplies…

Okay, wait, this was war, wasn't it? And the first rule of war was that people died. And if we let that train get through, just how many other people would end up getting killed. Not just the soldiers on the train, but Russians too. Civilians even. So… blowing this train up would save lives?

Oh golly, had I just justified blowing people up?!

Besides, that logic was rubbish! I mean, so we blow these guys up, the Germans would just send more, who'd end up getting killed along with Russians and where did it stop?!

I cast a glance at Carter, who was waiting impatiently, every once in a while holding his watch up to the moonlight. How did he deal with this? Did he even think about it?

No, he couldn't have thought about it like I was, otherwise he'd go insane. I should tear a page from his book- ignorance and sanity over a conscience.

But surely Carter wasn't ignorant. He had to know what he was doing, right? And as for him not having a conscience, that was ridiculous. The guy was practically a freakin' boy scout! And he was somewhat sane. So… where did that leave me?

Vinnie Barbarino could never be as confused as I was at that moment.

My inner debate was cut short by the sound of a train whistle ripping through the still night air. My heart froze. This was it. I could either tackle Carter to the ground and stop him or just shut my eyes, cover my ears and pretend I wasn't there. Was there a third option?

"Here it comes," Carter announced. "Better cover your ears, this is gonna be loud!" He pulled up the plunger, just as the train was reaching the bridge. The ridiculous image of Snidely Whiplash crossed my mind but I quickly tossed it aside.

It was my big moment to be a hero! And what did I do?

Closed my eyes and covered my ears.

Carter was right. The explosion was loud. Really loud. The ground shook as the explosion ripped through the air like a thousand rolls of thunder, followed by another and another blast. Carter let out a giddy whoop and in that moment, I actually hated him. And for a second, I wondered if it was because I was jealous. After all, I'd give anything to just be excited about the explosion and forget the consequences.

"Come on," Carter said after the worst of the explosions were over. he grabbed my arm and pulled me up before starting back the way we came.

With one last glance at the fiery destruction of the bridge, I followed him.


	47. Jake Part 4

**Jake - Part 4**

**Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad…Tiger**

Several more people came in over the next 10-15 minutes, and the next hour or so was spent in portioning out search sectors. We would be operating in twos. I was paired with Tiger, who would also hide me during the day, because she was the only one who was really fluent in English. (A great chance for me to work on my French, this.)

We spent the next three nights wandering the countryside, keeping to the woods alongside likely roads, though close enough to be able to see the dirt surface, watching for signs of vehicles turning where there didn't appear to be anywhere for them to go. Tiger was better at this than I, as my night vision has never been worth much.

There was little traffic at night, and all of it was official. We hid in the brush when these passed, most going slowly as the troops inside watched the shoulders. Sometimes they would stop and shine flashlights into the bushes, and once, halfway through the third night, they even parted the branches with their rifle barrels, while I desperately wished for a gillie blanket. How they missed us that time, I'll never know.

"Either we are getting close, or that squad is trying to impress someone," Tiger whispered after they had gone.

Not long afterward, we came to a fork in the road and were trying to decide which way to go, when we heard another car, this one approaching at speed, and dove back into the brush just before a black Mercedes came roaring past and tore up the left fork.

I knew that license plate. Holy cow, they'd even had that little detail right! "That's Hochstetter's car," I hissed. "The scientists came into Stalag 13 with him."

She followed that information to its obvious conclusion, and we trailed the Gestapo-mobile up the left fork.

And I thought we'd had some hairy going before. The woods here were crawling with Krauts, and they were _jumpy._ We didn't dare get up from our bellies; we inched forward as silently as we could.

A bush rustled several yards ahead of us; one of the guards whirled and let loose a spray of machine-gun fire. When he stopped, his companion checked the bush and came out laughing, carrying a thoroughly mangled, very dead cat.

We both lay very still for at least a full minute after that; I was pouring everything I had into not shaking. I mean, my years in the Air Force had been during _peacetime;_ beginning just before Tehran and ending two or three years before Desert Storm. I'd fired a weapon exactly twice, once in Basic when I'd qualified with the M-16, and again three years later, when my duties required me to qualify with a .38 revolver. After that, I bought a .22 rifle, but the only things I've ever actually shot with it were small predators attacking my chickens and sheep. While I've always known I could kill a man if I had to, somehow the possibility of being shot myself had never entered into the equation.

Reinforcements joined the guards, drawn by the sound of firing; they conferred for a few moments, had a good laugh over the cat, and left. Once we were sure things had settled (including my nerves), Tiger touched my arm, I nodded, and we crawled on.

It seemed like a lifetime, but Tiger later told me that it was actually less then a minute before the woods just…ended. Beyond was open ground extending for about 20 yards, then a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, surrounding a compound that included barracks-like buildings and a large structure that was mostly windowless. We saw Hochstetter come out alone and drive off. Another official-looking car arrived; the gate guards carefully checked each occupant's papers before allowing the vehicle to pass.

While it was every bit as nerve-wracking, our retreat seemed somehow anti-climactic, probably because it was relatively uneventful. (Note the key word "relatively.")

When we got back to the barn, the few people who had returned before us could tell just by looking at us that we had struck paydirt. One of them conferred with Tiger in French, after which she told me, "The Gestapo have left the camp; instructions were left for me to bring you back once we found the lab."

So there was another trek through the woods, ducking the searchlights as we approached the camp.

Now I faced another problem. My legs were trembling from all the walking, and I wasn't sure I could make it down the ladder. Fortunately, my arms were still up to the task, and I made it safely to the bottom before my knees buckled. Tiger had seen this both previous nights; now she wordlessly helped me up and supported me as we made our way through the underground maze.

Baker was manning the radio and shot to his feet in alarm when he saw me leaning on Tiger. "You okay, ma'am?"

"I'm fine," I told him. "My legs just gave out on me." I sat on the edge of the table with a sigh of relief.

"We found the lab," Tiger put in, and Baker immediately sent the signal upstairs. A few seconds later, I could hear someone coming down the ladder; Baker stopped him before he came into view. "She's back," was all he said; the steps ascended once more.

Ten minutes were long enough for my legs to have recovered once more, and I was back on my feet by the time Colonel Hogan came down, fully dressed, even his hair hastily combed into its customary flat-top, though he was in need of a shave, and his eyes looked a little bleary. We delivered our report, with the location of the lab and the security surrounding it.

I had read that debriefings could be grueling things, but actually going through it myself gave it a whole new dimension. It took everything I had not to scream at him, was he deaf or something?! after he asked me the same question for the fourth or fifth time--until I suddenly realized that each time he asked the question, there was more detail in my answers. Then I saw that Tiger, the experienced Resistance leader, looked about ready to strangle the man, and it suddenly became hilariously funny. Somewhere in back of my fried little pea-brain, I realized that I had just crossed the line from exhausted to outright punchy.

Then, finally, as if someone had turned a switch, it was over. Just that suddenly, Col. Hogan changed from interrogator to the good commander who was concerned about his people.

"Good work," he said, then uttered the four most welcome words in the English language at that point: "Go get some rest."

I was asleep before my head ever touched what passed for a pillow.

I don't know how long I slept, but I don't think it was very long, because I felt very groggy. So why in the world had I awakened? Slowly, I realized that something was nagging at the back of my mind, as if I had left something undone. Maps. Why was I thinking about maps? I needed to go back to sleep was what I needed to do; I pulled the woolen blanket over my head, but the images were dancing in my head now, too vividly to be ignored. Cursing silently, I rolled out of bed, pulled my boots on and only half-laced them before I went staggering up the tunnel to the radio room.

Kinch was on duty this time. "Can I get some paper from you?" I asked.

He handed over a sheet of that blue paper. "Treat it nice," he grinned. "It's not exactly easy to come by."

"Is a map nice enough for ya?" I grinned back.

"Ah. You'll want these, then." With that, he handed over--wonder of wonders!--a fistful of _colored pencils!!_

"Perfect!" I took the pencils and settled at the table right there and began to sketch madly. Salient details were numbered, and the numbers explained in a key. When I finally had it finished, I asked for another sheet of paper and began to write. I don't know why I felt so driven to provide a written report, but I knew, as I knew my own writing reactions, that I wasn't going to get any more rest until it was done. So I wrote. Observations. Conclusions, and, Heaven help me, even recommendations. Sheer _chutzpah,_ coming from someone who, until tonight, had never had to deal with an enemy in the field.

"Respectfully submitted," I wrote at the bottom, and scrawled my name under it.

Seconds later, I was asleep at the table. When I woke again, Kinch was standing over my shoulder, calling my name. If he wanted to wake me up, why didn't he just shake me, I wondered, until I came more fully awake and remembered _when_ this was. A gentleman never touched a lady uninvited, and that went triple when the gentleman was black and the lady, white.

I sat back and stretched. "Sorry," I said sheepishly. "I couldn't sleep any more until I finished this."

His grin this time was total understanding. "I hear ya," he said, and picked up the papers. "I'll take these to the colonel; you try to get back to sleep."

"Thanks," I managed through a huge yawn and staggered back to my bed. This time, I had serious doubts if even one of Carter's "lab accidents" would wake me.

* * *

**Jake's report on the probable lab site to Colonel Hogan:**

The site is a three-hour walk to the southeast of the camp, in a small pocket-valley. It may have been a farm in the past; there is a house, and a very large building stands partially on an old stone foundation of the type commonly seen on barns. The structure's total size is approximately 50 x 80 feet. The house stands at its northeast corner, and a barracks-type building (approx. 50 x 25 feet) at its southeast corner. The house looks to have had some repair work done on it and probably holds office space and VIP sleeping quarters. All three buildings are of wood. There are two other outbuildings at the southern end of the compound, both in poor repair and apparently not in use.

The entire compound is surrounded by a double fence. The inner fence runs along the perimeter of the valley floor, old woven-wire of the type which surrounds the camp; it is probably the original farm fence. Some areas of newer wire mark recent repairs, and fairly new barbed wire runs atop it. The outer fence is chain-link, also with barbed wire at the top. It is situated partway up the surrounding slope, but not so near the top as to be immediately visible from the ridge. Eight Alsatians run loose in the area between the fences. The only entrance is a gate in the northern end. Four men guard this gate, and all occupants of vehicles are carefully checked before being admitted.

The land has been cleared of all trees and brush for about 20 yards around the fence; beyond this perimeter, the area is thickly wooded. The woods at the north end are heavily patrolled, but there are no troops at the south end or on either side--possibly to prevent casual passers-by in those directions from suspecting that there is anything of importance in the area.

A creek running along the eastern edge of the farm emerges immediately to the east of the gate. At this point, it has been diverted from its original course to run in a culvert under the access road, where a bridge of fairly recent construction crosses it. The dogs have ready access to this creek where it passes through their area.

The only access to the site is a narrow dirt lane that is not readily visible from the main road and probably can be missed even by those who know it is there.

Conclusions:This site, in all likelihood, is the location of the lab. Because of the valley's small size (perhaps 200-300 feet at its widest point), an air strike is probably not feasible. Further reconnaissance is necessary to confirm the objective and to discover possible access points. If one can be obtained, a mortar positioned in the woods to the west offers the best chance of success.

Respectfully submitted,  
Jake Duncan

* * *

**NOTE**: The map drawn of the location will be posted in the Yahoo Groups photo album under code#0876707


	48. Hogan's Chapter 5

**Hogan's Interim Chapter 5**

"Of course he's here," Hogan overheard Klink's exasperated tone repeating words he'd said to Major Hochstetter for the umpteenth time coming from the coffee pot speaker. Klink, naturally, hadn't actually checked to see if "he"—Hogan—really was in the camp or not. Next he'd be frantically sending Schultz scurrying over to check, without seeming as though he was checking. As far as Hogan could tell, Klink didn't really _believe_ Hochstetter's continuous claims about Hogan, but Klink also didn't really _disbelieve_ them either.

Either way, Klink's sense of self-preservation kept his own "see nothing, know nothing" more finely honed than Schultz's own.

Still, Hogan thought, as he zipped his uniform jacket, and checked in his shaving mirror to make sure all the black smudges were off his face. Klink's claim of Hogan's innocence in tonight's sabotage or not, Hochstetter would be arriving shortly to check for himself. Hogan glanced at his watch. The last of the Underground's diversions would be ending now. Hochstetter would be bee-lining toward Stalag 13 moments later.

_Good luck, Tiger, _Hogan silently wished.

_And good luck, Jake,_ he added to himself, thinking about the most recent operative added to the Underground's tiny resources in this area. After a good rest after finding the probable location of the time travel lab, Jake had gone back out with the Underground to keep watch on the facility, and help with tonight's diversions. Jake had turned out to be a good one. She lacked stamina, but that was a small matter in the overall scheme of things. She was brave, and unlike most of these others women from the future, she followed orders without question or debate. Her report on the lab, including a finely sketched map of the facility, was first rate.

"Oh! The coffee pot bug does work!" A voice of one of the others sounded in his office behind him.

Hogan's head dropped with an exasperated, overwhelmed, wished he could just turn around and shoot her, sigh. Then he straightened. Turned abruptly and took Tuttle by the scruff of the neck and marched her out into the main room of the barracks.

"Sorry, Colonel," Carter said immediately, still climbing up from bunk tunnel entrance. "She got away from me."

"You said the colonel wanted to see me," Tuttle protested.

Hogan gritted his teeth. Tuttle squirmed in his grasp. "Newkirk," he snapped. "Take this one down with IronAmerica…" No. He couldn't put Newkirk alone in the vicinity of IronAmerica. Carter? No, again. Tuttle could play him like a violin, as she'd demonstrated several times tonight. Kinchloe? No. IronAmerica tended to commiserate with him about his repressed status here in camp, never minding Hogan had made him second in command, despite army policy, and the others accepted him as such. Still, the speeches and lectures about how horrible his life and treatment was now seemed to depress Kinchloe. LeBeau? No. He probably _would_ shoot the girls.

Casting about the room, Hogan ordered, "Saunders. Garth. Take this young lady below and put her with IronAmerica. Sit on them, if you have to, to keep them there and keep them quiet. Hochstetter will be here any minute and we can't have any commotion."

As the tunnel entrance closed, and Kinchloe sealed and locked the trap mechanism, readying it for the Gestapo's arrival, Hogan poured himself a cup of thick-as-sludge burnt coffee, sat down and drank it diligently, feigning calmness and casualness for Hochstetter's imminent arrival. What he really wanted to do was go to bed, but once clear of Hochstetter, he still had to go out again tonight, take Tuttle back, and coordinate upcoming events with Jessica and Linda. He only hoped they'd pulled off their end of the mission and weren't at this moment needing rescue from some Gestapo cell themselves.

* * *

Hogan didn't bother with knocking. He curtly ordered Newkirk to pick the lock of the backdoor of Olsen's house. All in black, faces darkened again, he, LeBeau, and Newkirk poised, weapons in hand, to creep in. Kinchloe held back in the shadows, keeping Tuttle quiet and low. Carter had been left behind to entertain IronAmerica—Hogan thought he was teaching her mumblety peg. Maybe he'd get lucky and they'd accidentally kill each other with the knives.

Slipping into the house, Hogan crept through the kitchen, gun poised. He heard faint voices from the living room. Nudging the kitchen door open a crack, he peered through. Jessica and Linda were standing in the living room debating. Jessica had coat and hat on.

"…if I don't come back…" were the words Hogan heard as he opened the door wider, loudly whispering, "Ladies," by way of warning.

Immense relief showed on both women's faces as they saw Hogan enter the room, followed by Newkirk and LeBeau. Newkirk moved immediately to peek out the front window, while LeBeau checked the door.

"What was the plan here?" Hogan asked tersely, gesturing to Jessica—dressed to go out.

"Tuttle is missing," Linda said bluntly.

"And you were going to go look for her? Or rescue her?" Hogan asked Jessica with a trace of scorn.

"I was going to go to the Gestapo," Jessica snapped back. One of these days Hogan would have to figure out how his famed charm with women was so utterly lost on this one… and she liked Klink, no less! No accounting for taste. Jessica went on, "I was going to see if she got rounded up, like Hochstetter said they were going to do… Hochstetter showed up at the Hofbrau, by the way."

"I know," Hogan said. "I sent him."

If looks could kill, as the saying goes, Linda's glare would have incinerated Hogan on the spot.

After a substantial glare of her own, Jessica went on, saying, "I was going to ask them if our oh-so-innocent young French maid was _accidentally_ rounded up with the other 'usual suspects'. Her papers are here. I was going to bring them with."

Hogan had to admit, as ideas went in this situation, it wasn't a bad one; much better than if they'd panicked and tried to get to Stalag 13 to get Hogan to help. Jessica, in the guise of Olsen's mother, had personally encountered most of the Hammelburg Gestapo agents. As Hogan well know, acting boldly innocent was a good way to be taken as innocent.

"Okay, well, never mind that now," Hogan said. "Tuttle is with us. LeBeau…" He gestured for LeBeau to fetch her in, while Kinchloe stayed outside on watch. A contrite and subdued Tuttle entered, not having anything to say for once. Hogan had a feeling there would be a good talking-to taking place here later tonight.

Jessica reheated some coffee. Hogan, Linda, Tuttle, and Jessica then settled down in the living room. Hogan gulped some of the coffee, aware he still had a very long night yet ahead.

"How'd it go tonight?" Hogan asked. "Everything set?"

"We're on for the party," they told him. "The scientists will be invited. And we might get a look at some guy they have they think is either a magician or a time traveler."

"Who the heck is that, by the way?" Jessica asked.

Eyes narrowing, wanting to gauge their reaction, Hogan said, "A young man, about twenty. Calls himself Byakugan." He continued with the description of the strange clothing, the 'magical' potions, the Japanese connections and symbols.

The three women exchanged questioning looks. They all agreed they didn't know him.

"If he's not one of ours, is he the for-real time traveler? One who knows how to use and reset the time gadget?" Jessica asked hopefully. "Or something else?"

"_Something else_ would be the way to put it," Hogan muttered, then said with a sigh, "He's Iron America's brother."

"Oooh…" all three said in unison, with a sympathetic tone.

"Anime," Jessica said abruptly.

"What's that?" Hogan asked.

"All that Japanese stuff. It's anime," she explained. "Japanese animation. Cartoons from Japan. I've never seen any, but I think they tend to have magical superheroes in them. Like Superman, but all mystical and Eastern. It's very popular with the kids now. I mean, the future now."

Linda agreed, saying one of her children liked anime. Children? Hogan stared at her hard a moment. He hadn't really considered the lives these visitors out of time had left behind, and what the stakes were for each of them personally. Children. Husbands. Their lives. Home. Everyone wanted to get back home, Hogan included, but such desires had to be set aside for the greater good, the greater need.

"I need to know," Hogan said slowly. He looked at each of them in turn, carefully making eye contact. "I need to know." He punctuated the sentence and waited.

"The future, you mean?" Jessica finally said.

Hogan nodded. "And if you are all willing to risk your lives not just to get back home, but to defeat the Nazis?" He focused on Jessica first. "You've told me this, all this--" He waved his hang in the air around him to encompass him, his men, their mission, all of the world in a war for the future—"was nothing but a silly comedy program to you to all of you. Fun. Funny. Comical Nazis. Jessica, you've been here the longest. Have you seen enough of the Nazis and what they really are to fight them, for the sake of destroying them, not just because you want to get back to your home?"

Jessica held his eyes for a long moment, then exchanged a serious glance with Linda. "Colonel Hogan," Jessica said, "we know…" She paused and seemed to be trying to either gain control, or to choose and censor what she said. He couldn't tell which. "We know thing about the Nazis, what they are, and what they did, what they _are doing_, beyond anything even you have imagined." Another look passed between Jessica and Linda. Tuttle sat silently, staring downward. "It wouldn't help you or your men to know about it all now. Trust me," she added, cutting Hogan off before he could interrupt.

Seeing the attention Newkirk and LeBeau were giving the conversation, Hogan abruptly ordered them to go out and patrol the area. He got annoyed looks from them, but prompt obedience (unlike these future women!).

"All right," Hogan said sharply, when they were alone, "cards on the table." The women remained silent. "Listen, I'm more than half way to thinking you're all part of some Nazi scheme. Maybe Hochstetter's finally gotten creative trying to trap me, and none of you are really time travelers at all. I've got that boy in the cooler who all but handed me and my operation over to Hochstetter, and seems to think this is all funny… and you," he pointed to Jessica, "cozying up to Klink."

"That was your idea!" she snapped back. "But I do like him," she added defensively. Linda and Tuttle made the expected 'oh, ick' faces.

"Spill it, or I'm calling a halt to this operation and you're all going to stay here forever," Hogan said, using a deadly serious tone of voice.

After an uncomfortable stirring and exchanging of glances, Jessica spoke. "You've heard of Dachau, right?" Jessica asked. Hogan nodded. One of the first concentration camps. "I've been there," she said. "It's kept as a… memorial. Go there, when this is over. Go to one of the concentration camps after it's liberated. It will haunt you the rest of your life, but go anyhow. It's important. Go and look. You'll understand then."

Hogan considered what she said, and what the words implied. "More," he said.

* * *

Training, experience, the ability to focus on the task at hand… call it what you will, Hogan set aside what the women told him of the present, even more than what they'd told him of the future, and concentrated on what needed to be done now, but the thoughts and images kept straying back to torment him. He and his men would do as much as they could to win this war as quickly a possible, but that's all they could do. They were just five men. The women were right when they said it wouldn't serve his men to know what Hogan now knew. It was too overwhelming and unstoppable… unstoppable for just a small band of men. It would take the combined might of all the Allied countries, their lives and blood, to end this evil.

Next time Hogan looked at Hochstetter, though, he'd have a struggle to play his role of cowed POW and not just punch the monster in the nose. He knew full well Hochstetter was evil. But there was evil and then there was Evil, with a capital "E". And Hochstetter, the Gestapo, and all the SS were Evil.

Shaking himself back to the present, Hogan strode through the tunnels toward the radio room, itemizing the steps in the plan and the assignments to put the pieces all together.

"Sir!" Garth's voice caught him at the side-tunnel leading to the coolers. Hogan paused to receive Garth's report about the newest arrival, the young woman who'd run screaming through the tunnels when she saw Hogan. Unable to intercept her then, she'd been promptly caught by the SS and had been briefly housed with Byakugan. It hadn't seemed like a warm reunion of 'Internet' chums, according to Garth, eavesdropping on them as well as could be safely managed. They didn't seem to know each other, and this _Samantha Pepper_ painted an entirely new picture of the future to Hochstetter. Who was lying and who was telling the truth? Her? Or Jessica and Linda, who seemed to get along so well with Klink and Hochstetter yet claimed such a deep hatred of all things Nazi? Hogan immediately revised his mental plan. He couldn't be sure, yet had to take all possibilities into account.

Passing IronAmerica and Carter, Hogan absently noted IronAmerica bandaging some nicks in Carter's fingers. She seemed unharmed, and a pile of cookies from Carter's last Red Cross package sat beside her. Hogan summoned them with a crook of his finger as he passed them.

"Kinch," Hogan called. Constantly alert to his commander's every mood, tone, or motion, Sergeant Kinchloe immediately raised a notepad, pencil poised. "Message to London, use the code, frequency, and time schedule for Cat and Niente to receive it. Message as follows: _Check Gringotts for note from Eloi. Beam up set for tomorrow 2100."_

Without so much as a raised eyebrow, Kinchloe took down the bizarre message. "Send that," Hogan ordered, then taking the notepad—conscious of IronAmerica watching with interest from nearby—jotted down another message. "Send this one in the emergency code. Send it when Cat and Niente _won't_ be on duty to receive it." Covering his bases, Hogan thought to himself, wishing things could be more straight-forward. Duplicity and lies… who to trust? Who to believe? Byakugan with his overt craziness and Japanese affinity? Jessica with her openly acknowledged German relationships? Niente Zero with the Italian name (yes, he'd noticed that)?

IronAmerica with… she looked up at him with those so-young eyes. "Are you going to rescue my brother soon?"

Hogan put a hand on her shoulder comfortingly, thinking he was a master of duplicity and lies himself. "Don't worry. Tomorrow evening, if all goes well. And I'll need you to help."

Quickly, to his gathered team, Hogan sketched out the assignments. Carter, Newkirk, and IronAmerica were to set up a magic disappearing act, with IronAmerica helping decipher Byakugan's 'magical' supplies. Jake and Tiger monitoring the camp and the lab. LeBeau to continue to toy with the Gestapo guards' food to make the 'time sickness' effect make them want to keep their distance from Byakugan. Jessica, Linda, and Tuttle—already set in their roles. Niente and Cat—about to receive their assignment message. And Hogan, himself, to keep after Klink to have Byakugan released from Gestapo custody into the camp as just another POW, which Hochstetter would never allow. Also to demand this young woman, Miss Pepper, be taken _out_ of the camp, hopefully to the lab.

Hogan took a deep, sighing breath, and reached for the coffee pot again. Nothing to it. Piece of pie. Cake. Whichever.


	49. Carter and Newkirk by 96 Hubbles

**Carter and Newkirk  
****by 96 Hubbles**

"Now there is a singularly unlovely sight," Newkirk said.

Carter, walking into the section of the tunnel where Newkirk was working, shut his mouth in mid-yawn and looked up at his friend. "Huh?"

"I was talking about that gaping view of your tonsils," Newkirk explained from the top of a ladder, where he was measuring a square hole cut into the roof of the temporary tunnel that digging crew had carved out that morning. "Stop that yawning or you'll have me doing it next."

"Oh," Carter yawned again, "sorry."

"Never mind, Carter," Newkirk sighed and went back to his measuring. "I could do with a kip and all myself. If you ask me, we're going to a lot of bloody trouble for some barmy nutter we're not even sure is on our side."

"Aww, don't be like that Newkirk," Carter said, then grinned. "After all, he could be your brother-in-law someday," he added.

Newkirk glowered down at him. "Step over here, Andrew. I think you need to be measured for a new hat size…" Newkirk said, waving a fist menacingly over the top of Carter's head.

"If you could hold off 'til I've had a chance to talk with him, Newkirk, I'd be much obliged," Colonel Hogan asked as he strode in behind them.

"Well, if it's an order…" the Englishman pretended to grouse.

"It is. There's something extremely vital that I need to find out from him."

Carter straightened up eagerly. "What do you need, Colonel?"

"I need to know, Carter, just what - _what_ - in the world you need with three pairs of nylons!"

"Blimey, Carter!" Newkirk laughed, coming down the ladder, "I didn't know you were _that_ sort!"

"Oh, knock it off!" Carter told Newkirk, but then quickly smartened up when he saw that his CO was still looking at him, wanting an answer. "It's for the trap doors," he swiftly started to explain to Hogan. "I'll show you." Brushing past the colonel, he lead both men out into the main part of Tunnel 5 to where a strange wooden girder frame box was set up.

"What's this?" Hogan asked.

"It's to test the trap doors," Carter said.

"I thought you and the blokes in Carpentry already did that this morning. They told me the plans I gave them for a stage trap door were simple enough."

"Oh yeah, they were great, Newkirk. But that was just for the door flaps themselves. We had to do it again to see how well they worked with the covering dirt on them. Watch!" Carter reached down near the bottom of the frame and flipped a lever. The flaps dropped down sharply, but almost silently.

Hogan walked over and bent down to take a closer look. "That's fantastic, Carter. But how did you keep the dirt from sliding down off the flaps when it opened?"

"That's where the nylon came in, Colonel. It's sheer enough - at least against the dirt - that you can't really see it, but strong enough to hold most of the cover in place. I mixed in a whole bunch of stuff with the dirt there, to pack it down, then sort of wrapped bits of nylon around here and there to make slabs - kind of like pieces of sod - then used the rest of the nylon to wrap around the sides of each flap to keep the whole mess from falling down into the tunnel. So that when - " and he hit the lever back up, "the trap doors close again, the "ground" is still there, covering them."

"Blimey!" Newkirk whistled, impressed.

"Very good work, Carter," Hogan said. "And the doors, will they go back that quickly every time?"

"They should," Carter replied. "Bates in Metal Shop made some spring loaded case latches with a snap closure. He said they're stainless steel and that should keep them from seizing up. It closes up strong too," Carter went on. "Look," he said, climbing on top of the trap door, "Once Byakugan drops down, the doors should snap shut again when we pull the lever and Germans could walk all over it and not fall through."

Hogan looked up at him and cocked an eyebrow. "Even Schultz?" he asked wryly.

Carter gave him his best crestfallen look. "Aw gee, Colonel. A guy can only promise so much, ya know."

"Anyway," Carter continued as he climbed back down again, "I've sort of built up the "mud" around the edges, just a little. I figure that if we can get some of the surface sand from the compound near the cooler, I can kinda fill in the middle so that it'll look more natural. Might not matter in the dark, since we'll be doing this at night, but it wouldn't hurt. Then maybe if we can throw some more down - a thin layer oughta do it - and stomp around on it a bit, that'll cover the whole thing. Maybe we could even put some more down again, after the trap opens and closes, 'cause some dirt will spill down no matter what. See, under there…" Carter said, pointing to floor on the tunnel under the frame.

Hogan straightened up and pondered the problem for a moment. "We could get some of the guys to stage a brawl in front of the cooler tomorrow morning. Tell them to shove as much dirt into their pockets as they can while they're rolling around throwing punches at each other. That should tramp down the ground around the area as well, and spread the sand to cover up any signs of disturbance that we make tonight putting the trap in. Newkirk, is the hole ready to go?"

"Yes, sir. The measurements are spot on." He nodded towards the frame work. "Should fit nicely."

"And we're sure about the position?"

"As sure as we can be. The goons always park eight feet away from the building, lining up the front end of the truck with the northwest corner, which puts the back end five feet to the right of the cooler's entrance. They always haul whatever poor bloke is in there out by walking straight 'til they're in line with the truck's back before turning him round to the right."

"Three cheers for your anal retentive Kraut," Hogan put in.

"Huh?" Carter asked.

"Never mind, Carter. I'll explain it later. Exactly where is the trap?" Hogan asked Newkirk.

"We've got the middle of the trap is lined up so it's precisely six feet from the cooler entrance."

"Good to know. I might have to put in an appearance, in case we get a rogue goon who doesn't play along and Byakugan needs to be maneuvered into position."

"How are you going to pinpoint it in the dark?" Carter asked.

"Don't worry, Carter. I'm good at judging measurements."

"That's what he practices everyday with Fräulein Hilda - _evaluating measurements_," Newkirk quipped.

"Can you think of a better way?" Hogan laughed.

"And they are?" Newkirk wanted to know.

"Go practice judging for yourself. Just do it from a distance."

"Another order?" Newkirk asked mournfully.

" 'Fraid so, Corporal."

"Innit always the way?" Newkirk complained good-naturedly to Carter. "Officers get all the perks."

"Hey, there has to be some compensation for talking to Klink!" Hogan protested. Then he nodded back to where the trap door was going to be set up, "show me what you've got set up for signal."

"It's not much, Colonel," Carter explained as they re-entered the temporary tunnel. He pointed to a small hole in the roof of the tunnel. A string ran through it, with what looked like a cowbell dangling from the end of it. "The other end comes up near Barracks Nine. Kinch is going to be there tomorrow night and he'll give the signal when Byakugan is in the right place."

"I hope he's been practicing his measurements with Fräulein Hilda too," Newkirk said.

"What about tonight?" Hogan asked, ignoring Newkirk. "Who's watching to make sure you come up through the last half foot when there are no guards around?"

"Baker's going to handle it."

Hogan nodded. "What about the pyrotechnics? Are they all set to go?"

Carter lit right up, ready to tell his CO all about the special light show he'd whipped up for the occasion, but before he could, Newkirk broke in: "Don't get 'im started, Colonel, please. They're sorted - you can tell by the way he looks."

"Hey!"

"Sorry, mate, but we've got enough still to do tonight. We stand here listening to you go on about your firecrackers and we'll be here 'til all of them silly birds are in their right time again."

"He's right, Carter. _I mean _about how there's still a lot of work to do before tomorrow," Hogan added quickly when he spotted the look on his sergeant's face. "But I'm sure you've done an excellent job."

"Hmph," Carter mumbled sourly.

" 'Ere, what about that powder of Byakugan's?" Newkirk asked. "That one what's supposed to make people suggestible? Can we throw that in somehow?"

"I've got a small package of it ready. If I can wrangle myself out there at the right moment, I'll toss it at the Germans. With luck, maybe I can keep the scientists from being too eager to investigate their disappearing time traveler. Newkirk, maybe you can rig up some cheaters to hide under my pants' legs - if I get the chance I'll drop some sand down at the same time."

"I'll get right on it soon as the trap's in place."

"Good."

"Colonel? How are we going to get the tunnel off-shoot filled back up again quickly enough?" Carter asked. "I know it's not big, but the Germans might think to start digging pretty fast."

"The digging crew assures me that they can do it. They've got some sort of contraption to hold the trap shut while they take the frame out, and strong enough that anyone standing on top shouldn't be able to notice anything wrong. After that they're going to push as much loose dirt in as fast as they can. The main worry is that if the Germans start digging they'll be able to tell it's not packed earth."

Carter's eyes widened slightly. "But what are we going to do if they find the main tunnel?"

"That's where you come in. Do you think you can rig a small charge and put it right here?" Hogan asked, putting his hand on where the small off-shoot tunnel joined tunnel five. "Small enough so they won't know it's an explosion, and will put it down to a cave-in?"

"I don't know… maybe. But aren't they gonna know that we had to get to this part by digging from somewhere else?"

Newkirk waved his hand at the small area. "He's right, guv'nor. It's not like we could've dug straight down from six feet right in front of the cooler without anyone spotting us. Not right nearly in the middle of the bloody compound like that."

"I don't know. If it comes to that, let's hope I can convince them that it was just the end of a tunnel we abandoned a long time ago, when we finally figured out that escape was impossible." Hogan sighed and regarded the two men facing him. "And if we're going to pull this off, maybe we'd better hope the kid's suggestible powder works as well as he seems to think it does!"


	50. Hexiva Part 2

**Hexiva, Part 2  
**Beta-read by LJ Groundwater  
**Alternate Timelines, Nazism, and Complete and Utter Terror.**

To make a long, boring, tired, and cold story short, it was a very odd morning. I had found nothing I could say to Byakugan, had not slept a wink, and had been unable to quite look away from Byakugan's awful bruises. However, I _had _come up with an idea.

I had no intention of ending up as bruised as Byakugan, and he had been beaten each time he had foretold the fate of the Nazis in the future. How could I avoid this fate?

Finally, it hit me: When asked about the future, there was no reason I should tell the _real _future.

It was quite a bit later that someone finally entered the cell. My pleasure at the distraction from my finger twiddling was tainted by fear as I saw that he was wearing the grey uniform of an SS major. He was accompanied by two goons and someone not in uniform who was either a civilian or a high-ranking Gestapo officer.

The goons aimed their guns at me. I paled and lifted my hands.

"Who are you?" the major said roughly.

I opened my mouth to answer, and then hesitated. _I'm in Nazi Germany, the Anti-Semitic capital of world history, _I thought._ Do I _really _want to tell a Gestapo officer a surname like mine?_

"Who are you?" the major asked again, and I saw, out of the corner of my eye, one of the goons preparing to hit me.

"Don't! I'm-- Samantha Pepper!" I lied hurriedly. It's my cat's name.

"Where are you from?"

"America!" I answered. _No point in lying; my accent is plain._

"When was this written?" The major held up a book.

I peered at it, startled. It was the book I had been carrying when I had landed. "It came out a few weeks ago." I started mentally paging through it, trying to remember if there was anything in there to dispel my story. _No,_ I decided, _I couldn't have brought a more neutral book. _

"The date says two thousand and eight."

I nodded. This, I had planned for. "That's what year it is, isn't it, Sturmbannführer?" The rank, with it's Umlaut, felt odd on my tongue. It belonged in a story I was writing, in a history book I was reading, on a webpage about WWII. It belonged in the past.

"It is 1943," the Nazi officer said. He sounded as if he was gloating over being able to tell me that.

I faked shock. "What? How--?"

"You know. The . . .watch."

"He--" I looked at Byakugan-- "said something about a watch, Sturmbannführer."

"Yes. The time device."

"Yes, that's what a watch is." I yelped in pain as one of Hochstetter's goons slapped me.

"No, not that," Hochstetter continued as I rubbed my stinging face, "It . . .moves in time."

"Time travel?" I recalled reading that the entire concept of time travel had been somewhat foreign to the people of that century.

"Ja."

"Is that how I got here?"

"Don't you know?" The major was puzzled.

"Haven't the foggiest," I said, half-truthfully. "One minute, I was reading peacefully, next I was out in the freezing air."

"I find it difficult to believe it was that simple."

I started to panic. He had no reason to believe me. After all, wasn't time travel supposed to be some sort of glowing portal or a roomful of complicated electronics?

"I swear I don't know how I got here! How could I? I'm certainly not a physicist!"

"But you could have been sent by people who were."

"The only scientists I know are zoologists! And they both work with computers now!"

Apparently he didn't understand that (to be fair, I'm not sure _I_ did), because he turned to the man in civilian clothes and said something. There was a rather long, irate exchange between the two in very fast German, giving me a chance to calm down. The only thing I understood was what the civilian called the Nazi major: 'Hochstetter.' My eyes widened; the officer looked nothing like Hochstetter! Granted, he was fairly short and had dark hair and a similar mustache, but that was where the similarities ended. It was not just that he was wearing the grey uniform with a Sturmbannführers insignia that the show had never put him in. His face was completely different from the Hochstetter I knew, and his accent was much thicker.

_"Hochstetter?" _I said, my plan forgotten for the moment.

He gave me an odd look. "How do you know my name?"

_Oops. _Having to explain _Hogan's Heroes _would be a very bad thing for my plan, and it would probably be a very good way of getting myself beaten, if not shot.

"It's the name of a prominent politician," I improvised, "but you don't look anything like him."

"An American politician?"

I think he realized I was lying, but I saw an opening to play my plan. "Yes. He's quite old in my time-- I think he might be alive now. Or maybe not; they don't appoint many people who fought for America in World War 2 to high ranking positions."

"Why not?" He was fishing for anything he could get out of me.

"Well, they can't really be trusted if they fought for Roosevelt, can they?"

Hochstetter's eyes narrowed. "Why not?"

I got a nasty feeling in my stomach. _Am I going to be able to pull this off? _"Would _you _trust them?"

"My country is at war with America."

"Not in my time. It was _World_ War Two. Not the Hundred Years War Two."

Hochstetter looked pained. "I do not think the Germany you know is the same as the one I do."

I frowned. _This is weird._ Hochstetter's actions when he first entered had fitted what I would have expected of him, but now . . . now he seemed to be speaking less hastily than I would have expected of him. _The last thing I need right now is a smart Hochstetter._

I realized I had been staring and I tried to remember what he had just said.

"Why not?" I said, echoing his earlier question. "It hasn't changed that much."

Hochstetter growled, and he was suddenly, terrifyingly in character. "After America conquers it?"

I took a deep breath and tried to control my expression. "What? That's not right!" I lied. This was the last point; I could back out of my complicated story and tell the truth.

Hochstetter got a very odd look on his face. "What does happen, then?" he said after a time.

I shrugged, praying that I looked casual despite the fact that I was shaking. "Germany won. Didn't you know?"

Byakugan, who had been leaning against the wall, looking artfully bored, jerked upright. At the same time, the German civilian asked Hochstetter what I was saying in a tone of voice that made his meaning, if not his exact words, clear.

Hochstetter answered tersely, and the civilian looked amazed, asked another question. Hochstetter shook his head and said, in English, "You're lying."

The world darkened before me, the combined effects of a sleepless night, shock, and hunger hitting me suddenly as I wondered, blearily, how he knew.

"I have it from a . . .reputable source that that's not what happens," Hochstetter added. I looked from Hochstetter to Byakugan, making the connection.

I managed to grasp a blurred, panicked idea from my fogged brain.

"Maybe we're from different timelines. One where the Germans won and one where they didn't. Another leg of the Trousers of Time. I think I read a book like that once, except not the one with the Trousers of Time in it." _Why is the cell so blurry? "The Proteus Operation, _maybe, or was it _Weapons of Choice? _I know there was one like that, but I can't--"

My last thought as I passed out, transcending memories of whichever book it is that I can't remember, was to wonder whether Byakugan believes my story, or whether he knows I'm lying.

* * *

When I awoke, I found myself alone in an enclosed cell different from the one in which I had spent the night. I was now wearing a grey uniform like Byakugan's. Obviously, some time had passed.

I started to sit up, and then tumbled back down; I felt like someone had hit me over the head with an elephant.

Someone was arguing loudly outside my cell. It took me a moment to realize they were doing it in German.

The cell door was flung open, and Hochstetter stormed in, followed by the same civilian I had seen earlier. The latter was obviously agitated, saying something containing the word _Krankheit, _disease_, _and trying to get Hochstetter not to come in. Hochstetter turned around and said something that also contained the word _Krankheit. _I gathered it was rather rude.

It was the civilian who pointed out that I was awake. He said something to me, and I shook my head.

"Entschuldigung, ich verstehe nicht," I said, hoping that that was right.

The civilian addressed his next comment to Hochstetter.

"Herzer wants to know if you know anything about how you got here," Hochstetter translated.

"I told you, I was just sitting there and then everything vanished!"

"Sitting where?" Hochstetter probed.

"The National Archives. I was on a field trip for school."

Herzer said something, angrily, and Hochstetter replied. I wished, not for the first time, that I spoke German.

"Did you see any sort of golden thing?" Hochstetter asked me.

"No," I said. "Wait. Do you mean Byakugan's watch?"

Hochstetter translated this into German for Herzer.

"Is it his?"

"Haven't the foggiest," I said.

More German; fast, incomprehensible.

"Herzer wants you to come to the lab and see the device. He says you have to have touched it to have come here."

"I've never seen anything like that!"

I could only understand half of the conversation; the part in English. I took some pleasure from the fact that Herzer would be having the same problem in reverse. Misery loves company.

Hochstetter didn't translate whatever Herzer had been saying, but simply gave an order to the guard outside the cell. Herzer said something that was, from the sounds of it, about _Krankheit _again. I was puzzled; _what _disease? Did they have an epidemic on their hands? If so, what did the Gestapo have to do with that?

The guards hauled me out of the cell and out of the Cooler. I covered my eyes, blinded by the sudden light. When my sight recovered, we were already halfway across the compound. I looked around. To my surprise, I saw two women entering one of the buildings. I looked closer at one of them. She looked oddly familiar; I tried to figure out who she could be.

Finally, I remembered, and I wish I hadn't. I had seen a photo of this woman on Yahoo. This was LJ Groundwater, one of the HH fanfic writers.

"_Linda?" _I said, not quite believing it. What was she doing here? _Comes to that, what am _I_ doing here?_

Hochstetter looked at me. "Who?"

"Er . . . Who are those two women?"

"A woman and her French cousin. Why?" he said suspiciously. "Why would you want to know?"

"_French?_" I said incredulously. She certainly didn't write like English was her second language!

"Why do you sound surprised? Germany has conquered France."

"Sort of," I said. "It's just that she looks a lot like someone- someone I- Yes, she looks like someone I know."

Hochstetter paled. "_What?_ You mean from your time?"

I panicked and started blathering. I was lucky not to be slapped. "How should I know? She could be! She could be from the future in Byakugan's timeline! She could be from now! I don't know!"

If it was possible, Hochstetter looked worse at that. "You think she's from Byakugan's timeline?" he repeated.

I shrugged. I felt it was time to try keeping my mouth shut. Things only got worse every time I opened it.

Hochstetter started across the compound towards Linda. Herzer called after him, probably asking what I had said. Hochstetter's answer was harsh.

I was pushed by one of the guards, and continued out of the camp.

In the last forty-eight hours, I have pretended to be a Nazi, betrayed an author who is the only person from my time who is free from the Nazis and run from the man who could save me from it.

I don't exactly feel great right now.


	51. Cat in London

**Cat in London**

I have to make a disclaimer: Time travel makes you schizophrenic. I can think of no other reason why I would be so upset to go to London with Sergeant Olsen and Neinte while Jessica, Linda and Tuttle were chosen to be femme fatales in Nazi Germany. Really.

One part of me was saying "Shut up and thank your lucky stars! London won't be a picnic either!" while another part was saying, "What? I'm not attractive enough, or smart enough to be a part of Hogan's grand scheme?" I did speak some German, heck; I even lived in Germany for five and a half years when I was a kid! Maybe that was part of the problem. Colonel Hogan didn't really trust me here. Good thing I never mentioned the family Sunday drives to Berchtesgaden.

As for the other time-traveling females not knowing me well; I was still new to the Hogan's Heroes' writing fandom. If Stalag 13 was the Ponderosa and Hogan was Ben Cartwright this would be a whole different story. Oh! Well, duh! Maybe it was a good thing, I was being sent to London.

At least I kept my mouth shut as Colonel Hogan explained the escape route we were to take. I guess my questions even seemed intelligent as he didn't seem as annoyed when I asked them and actually answered them politely and non-condescendingly. Looking at the map, my heart did a quick jump that we were in Bavaria. I knew on the lists there was a discussion on where the camp was, but this was actual proof. Well, sadly we would not be going near any where I grew up.

The night we were leaving, Olsen checked to be sure we had our papers. Yes, we had our papers. I was Katrina Kraus. (Wonder if there was some sort of psychic thing going on there. It sure was close to my own real name!) Niente had become Isobel Adler.

We both had been outfitted in traveling suits and coats. Everyone seemed to think it was odd that neither of us had been dressed for the winter weather. I don't know how this time-traveling worked, but I'm not wearing a coat in D.C. in May!

Colonel Hogan wanted us to know: in case of any danger, Olsen would do the talking and we would obey any commands he made. I have no idea what would happen to us if we didn't follow orders, but I really didn't want to know either. Besides, I was still trying to figure out what I was lacking that made Colonel Hogan want us away from there. Maybe he thought I was a spy and then I knew what would happen if I didn't obey Olsen. I really should stop obsessing.

If we ever thought we were going off on holiday those thoughts were quickly put to rest and peacefully. Outside of Hammelburg, we spotted a woman being beaten by some uniformed men. I guess they were Gestapo, but they could have been older Hitler Jungend. It was a group of at least six. The woman was on the ground curled up in a fetal position and they were kicking her and hitting her. Niente and I were going to help, but Olsen pulled us away and for the first time I didn't see the happy-go-lucky fellow.

"No! My orders are to get you two to London safely. It doesn't matter what your feelings are right now. If Hogan and Jessica are right, we may save more than one woman. You are going to have to get used to the idea; we can't save everyone. No matter how much we want to, we just can't."

So we left. But, it struck me that could have been Jessica. Oh, I knew it wasn't but, you know how you meet some people and there's something about them that reminds you of someone else even though they really don't look like them? That was what upset me about the woman. She did remind me of Jessica. It also reminded me that Jessica, Linda and Tuttle were not just setting up house, they were living in danger. Real danger. Thankful we were going to London, I played the good soldier and followed orders and kept my mouth shut. The rare occasions we met someone on the road, Niente and I cleared our throats a lot and coughed. I was hoping that if anything was mispronounced anyone would just figure our colds had made it hard to talk properly.

There is very little to say about our trip. We slept in abandoned barns, woods sheds, etc. Well, not that I really slept, but, no run-ins with anyone; if we weren't scared for our lives, it would have been a rather fun adventure.

Olsen made sure we arrived on time to be met by the sub. How I'm not sure, but I am sure he was in contact with the underground during our adventure. Another reason I thought Colonel Hogan didn't trust me. I think my lack of sleep had a lot to answer for then and what came after.

Once on the English coast, we were met by some men from Military Intelligence who interrogated us on our way to London. First together, then separate, then together again. No matter how we told our story, I don't think they wanted to believe us. Finally, when we got to London, I thought we would be given a place to stay and then interrogated after we had some rest. Hah! We were taken straight to headquarters in some underground floor and were met by some high ranking officers. By this time, all three of us were tired. I was getting a headache, Niente looked very pale. I couldn't tell if she was ill, tired, or scared. Probably all three. Olsen was the only one who looked somewhat competent.

It was a mixed bag of officers: British and American, a couple of generals, a colonel, maybe lieutenant colonel or a major (I knew he had leaves on his shoulder, but I couldn't figure out if they were silver or gold) and a few other ranks I couldn't make out. Olsen was doing most of the talking now, while Niente kept very still. I was just getting angry. I was tired, hungry and they were being absolute bullies. The final straw was I thought they were going to start in on Niente because by this time she looked the weakest link.

I grabbed a pad of paper from a very astonished officer sitting nearby and wrote something on the pad. Dad was stationed in England during a part of the war and told some tales. Not many, as he worked with Military Intelligence (eventually at Bletchley Park) and couldn't say much even by the time I was born. I mean, most of the stuff at Bletchley Park didn't become unclassified until 1974! Hopefully, I remembered the stories correctly and they were more than just tales. Folding the paper, I passed it (or more like threw it at the American general).

Contemptuously, he took it and opened it up. Paling while he read it, he showed it to the other Allied officers there.

"Major Davis, show Sergeant Olsen and Miss Nenty out. We'll speak with Miss Ballou alone." Niente followed Olsen and the men out of the room. At least she'd have a chance to calm down.

"Where the hell did you get this information?" asked General Williams waving the paper under my nose.

I tried to keep eye contact and act calmly. I was beginning to get a huge headache. Maybe it was Karma getting back to me for the headache we gave Colonel Hogan.

"My dad," I answered simply. Okay, maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Angry generals are not a good thing: doesn't matter if you're a civilian or not. Especially when all the officers seemed to tower over me.

"Your father? Who is he?" Now I was sure this wasn't such a good idea. The man was going absolutely apoplectic.

Taking a big gulp and saying a quick prayer, "Sorry, sir. I had a good childhood and I don't want to ruin it." Seeing his eyes get bigger, I quickly added, "I mean, if I was your daughter, could you promise you wouldn't treat me any different if you knew I would later travel back in time and meet you?"

"I don't have any daughters."

"Can you say that you will _never_ have any in say 15-20 years time?"

Some men snickered, some looked concerned, and luckily, the general looked a bisschen calmer. Oh great, in the middle of WWII England, I'm finally beginning to think in German!

He looked at me for a while then finally answered. "No. If I believe in all this time-traveling nonsense, and I mean IF, what does Hogan want you to do here?"

"Sir! May I say something?" This was from one of the British officers. "We know Colonel Hogan has come up with some pretty bizarre plots. But, time travel?"

This started them all talking again at once. It seems that Papa Bear had told them something about the gold thingy, but expected us to fill in the rest once we got to London. Olsen did show them something that Jessica had on her, but, I guess they still needed more proof. I just sat in my chair holding my head while the argument kept on. I lifted my head when it was suggested by the British General that maybe someone else should now take over the command of the operation at Stalag 13 because it was now a more important operation.

"NO!" It was a little louder and more emphatic than I had intended. "We know Hogan and we trust him. We're not military and won't simply obey orders just because someone of a higher rank tells us." Yeah, I took a lot of liberties there. I didn't know if any of us actually trusted Hogan, well, I guess we did sorta. But, with my luck they would probably have put Crittendon in charge. Nope, you don't change a horse in the middle of a stream, so for better or worse we were stuck with Hogan.

I have no idea how long I was in that little room with the officers. They were arguing with each other, shooting questions at me about my father; about what I had written. I finally had to promise that I would never repeat what I had written, even though I told them it would be declassified by the 1970s. I don't know if any of them are still alive to read this, but, put your silly heads at rest gentlemen. I haven't told anyone.

Finally, they seemed to believe me. They decided that it would be better for us to stay in London with a small security force. Olsen would remain with Neinte and me and not return to his outfit as he would be returning to the camp.

"We'll let Hogan know he's got free rein with this… uh, project. You three will be liaisons with Papa Bear. We'll get you settled in quarters and you'll take over radio duty; overseen by our people of course."

"So, just what did you say to them to get them to believe all this?" Olsen asked m while we were leaving the interrogation room. He actually suggested I was blackmailing the Generals. If only.

Niente looked relieved and asked if we could visit a pub. I think we all needed a drink, but unfortunately we were herded to a Victorian house, in a street that had already lost houses to the bombing.

I don't really remember that first night much. Niente did all the cleaning and cooking as my head still was aching. Mavis Newkirk was apparently our guide. Yep, that Mavis.

I was able to sleep in as Niente had first go at radio duty. Mine was second. I think Mavis was slightly upset that she had been taken off duty for a bit. I kept wondering if she knew about her brother.

As I relieved Niente, she told me it had been quiet and no word from Papa Bear. Hopefully it would be quiet for me also. No such luck. The radio came alive and I heard, "Papa Bear calling Goldilocks, Papa Bear calling Goldilocks."

I was a bit muddled at first, but Mavis showed me how to work the radio to answer. I was actually looking forward to the radio. I had enough ham in me to make Gwaltney drool. As I had mentioned, my voice is distinctive and I've had many fun times on the phone. I always seem to get people to talk to me and give me more information than I expect. I practically knew the life story of the technician I called to help me set up my computer for DSL. Same thing happened when I called information when they actually had real people answering.

I think I wasn't fully recovered from lack of sleep because now I was foolishly cocky: "Yo! Papa Bear! Wassup?" The air was quiet for a few minutes until rather warily, Kinch answered, "Goldilocks?"

"Yeah, well, I'm with Goldilocks. Um, Puss in Boots here. Just tell Papa Bear that his three kittens have arrived and are safe and sound. Oh, and he's fully driving this baby buggy: Operation Tardis. He can thank me,_ personally_, when we get back." Oh Lordy, no! Talk about a double entendre. "I mean he can say thank you and shake my hand. No personal thank you's needed. Honestly." Now, I'm insulting him… I hope he's not listening in…

"Operation Tardis, Puss?"

Oh yeah, there's the voice I recognize. Not Kinchloe's either. "Yes, it fits believe me. They'll know it." Hopefully, he'd know who the they were. Also, I was taking a chance that any of them knew what a Tardis was. But, Dr. Who has been on the air for at least 30 years, surely one of the group had caught it and knew I was referring to time travel!

Hey wait a minute, did I just call myself Puss in Boots? Thank heavens it was now a more "innocent" time when kids were still singing the Pussy Willow song or bemoaning Pussy in the Well, without any sniggers. Mrs. Slocomb could talk about her cat for hours on end and no one would think anything of it if she commented about her pussy-cat. Someone with a dirty mind has a lot to answer for.

Colonel Hogan did seem to recover, although I bet he was rethinking the wisdom of sending us to London. Or maybe he was thanking his lucky stars he was well away from us…

Anyway, it was apparently a "check-in" call along with request for supplies. He did ask if I knew anything about Byakugan although the radio had static at that time so it did take awhile before I realized he didn't want me to buy a cougar for him or to go around seducing young soldiers. I tell you if any Germans had been listening to that broadcast, they would have thought they tuned into a show on the BBC. He told me he'd let us know if there was any other information to be had. Hopefully, Olsen would take that call.


	52. IronAmerica Part 6

**Iron America Part 6**

Okay, let me state for the record, I do not commiserate with anybody about anything. I do not speak to Kinch about his status in the 40's, or anything to that effect. If Hogan thinks I do, well, that's great for him.

I am currently staring at the cause of most of my problems, and wondering how I can kill him, without making it look deliberate. Colonel Hogan stares back at me, holding a large file folder in his hands.

Is it really my fault that the man is a snoop? He was the one who decided to go on a midnight raid through my backpack for some reason. So he found the forum papers I printed off. Big deal.

Not so, unfortunately for me.

"Young lady, I have tolerated you for almost three weeks now. These papers," he shook them in my face, "have made me doubt what little trust I have given you." Sheesh, what's his problem? Most of those replies aren't even mine.

I open my mouth to talk him out of whatever he's planning on doing to me (probably an unmarked grave), when someone interrupts us. Thank the gods.

"Colonel Hogan! Schultz is singing that song again!" Hogan looks at me, and a slow evil grin spreads across his face.

"Jawohl, mein Fuehrer," I mutter under my breath, and grab my cell phone. Colonel Hogan had given me the task of getting that stupid song on recording for my big brother's "escape" into the depths of time. Lucky me.

I walk out of the barracks, a storm cloud hanging over my head, as my mom would say. I come across Sergeant Schultz, who is still bellowing that damn song. My question for the day. Why hasn't he stopped singing that song? It's been at least two weeks since we sang that one.

"There's a Mary Sue  
In this fic  
Main characters all fall in love with her.  
Can't see what makes all  
These writer's tick,  
When they put Mary Sues in the fic," he bellowed.

I walk up behind him, surreptitiously checking my cell phone's power supply again. It still has a full battery, which is good, because I'm going to be using it a lot in the next twenty-four hours.

I turn on the recording feature, and follow Schultz, getting as much of his singing as I can. Just as he finishes the song, he turns around, and sees me putting my phone back into my pocket.

"_Was is los?_" Busted. I look up, deer-in-the-headlights look slipping onto my face. If he isn't the pushover that the show described him as, I'm dead. Literally and figuratively.

"Nothing, Sergeant." I cross my fingers behind my back as a semi-conscious afterthought. He nods, still looking very suspicious, and continues off across the compound, and I can't help but wonder how involved he is in the true comings and goings of the camp, as opposed to the show.

* * *

Later in the tunnels, my loyal puppy dogs-errr, bodyguards-, including Kinch, Carter, Newkirk, and I are sitting at a large table, which is strewn with various scraps of technology.

"So, what exactly is the point of me being here?" I ask, still not completely sure why Hogan wanted me to be here. I'm not, just for the record, a very good mechanic. I am also not a computer engineer, or a radio operator, or a software/game designer.

"Because," Kinch says patiently, "You are the only one who understands the basic theories and technology behind the watch." I stare at him, open-mouthed.

"What? I may have read every single one of John Ringo's books, and Eric Flint's, and John Birmingham's, but that does NOT make me an astrophysicist." They give me blank looks, and I mutter a rather rude Spanish word under my breath.

"Never mind. Let's see what four or five seasons of MacGyver and CSI have taught me." Again, I get blank looks, and I feel a sharp pain of homesickness. I would love to be able to hold an intelligent conversation about future things with someone, but I'm not allowed anywhere near the radio, or my brother. But, I am in an involuntary vow of non-contact. At least until all of this blows over.

Over the next hour or so that it takes for us to construct a reasonable facsimile of the watch, I learn more about the heroes than I ever knew before. By before, I mean pre-actual meeting them.

Carter has never lived in Muncie, Indiana, but he thinks it would be nice to move somewhere different after the war. That was an unusual thing, and then I told him that everyone was a bit confused over where he had actually lived during the show's timeline. He just smiled, and shook his head. Obviously he's not going to tell me everything.

Kinch, the lovable guy, has actually won the Golden Gloves championship. I realize that he is definitely someone I never want to meet down a dark alley some night, because he's slightly creepy. And I mean that in a good way, should anyone ever try to misinterpret my intentions.

Newkirk is definitely a great person, though, like in the show, he doesn't seem to want to show how caring he is. Maybe that's because I'm around. His mother was a dancer, and he only has one sibling, contrary to popular opinion. When he found out about the multitude of siblings that people had given him, he laughed for almost three minutes straight.

Soon, we had a replica of the watch, which could be wired for sound. I seriously didn't know, or think, that I could do anything that turns out this good, because, while I can fix some things, another part of it tends to break.

I turn my attention back to the conversation at hand, which is apparently about us time-travelers. I immediately go into alert, wondering what the general opinions about us are.

The conversation is currently about Colonel Hogan. "You know, I'm surprised that the colonel hasn't cracked yet." They throw a significant look in my direction, before continuing. "I don't see him as being to happy anytime soon."

"Happy? Hogan? Are you using those in the same sentence?" Ah, Corporal James, my loyal bodyguard. He's been hanging around me too long. His speech patterns, and most likely his brain, have been affected.

However, the only thing I can actually focus on is the use of the two words "Happy" and "Hogan." I am immediately reminded of a character from the comic Ironman, and I start cracking up.

After a few minutes, someone thinks to ask why I am on the floor, laughing hysterically. I manage to gasp out "H-happy H-H-Hogan!" and collapse again, giggling madly.

Finally, someone goes to get Colonel Hogan, and the medic, Joe Wilson. I had almost gotten myself under control, until Sergeant Wilson asked what had set me off.

"All we said was that we didn't think that Colonel Hogan would be happy until all of the women, and the man upstairs were gone. And then Corporal James said that Happy and Hogan didn't belong in the same sentence. Than she just started laughing."

I just start off again, hearing the Happy Hogan thing again. I can't help myself. It has been so long since I have had a good long laugh. Even if it as at the expense of the Heroes.

Finally, I manage to get control of myself, and sit up. "Sorry. I just had to do that. It was an inside joke." I grin sheepishly, at Colonel Hogan, who still looks murderous. Figures. Those replies were not my fault.

"Comic book reference sir. It won't be around 'til 1963, if you want to read it." He just shakes his head, sighing. Wilson walks back the way he came, seeing as there was nothing wrong with me. Besides a mild fit of hysteria.

"We'll talk about those, ah, _forum_ replies later," Colonel Hogan says, looking me square in the eyes. He really wishes he could kill me, even though I only posted a little under twenty-five times.

Oh, well. Once more unto the breach.

* * *

**GSJessica Note:** I asked Iron America to write this chapter bringing back the "Mary Sue" song from chapter 18.


	53. Combined chapter 1

**Pass the hell and Pepper please?**

**with Hogan, Byakugan, and Hochstetter  
(with dialog and scenes previously written by Hexiva)**

**Hogan (written by GSJessica):**

Never had he been part of a stranger, more convoluted and hard to control situation than this one, Hogan considered. Every time he thought he had a handle on the plan, and everything was starting to go in order, another twist came up. Last had been the newest time traveler to arrive, running screaming from Hogan into the arms of the Gestapo! Hogan shook his head, adding that one to the list needing to be dealt with… somehow. For now, however, the rest of the pieces were all coming together.

Alone in his office with Sergeant Kinchloe, Hogan turned the small golden 'time' device over in his hands. It appeared to be a good match to the other, the real one, seen in the 'cell phone' picture Jessica had taken. The song, recorded by Iron America, on one of the phones, would play—loudly—when either touched on a mechanism button Kinchloe installed, or when triggered by one of the other cell phones activating it—another Kinchloe modification aided by Iron America's explanations of how the technology worked.

Iron America, when she wasn't busy hating him, clearly thought Hogan was insane for assigning her this bizarre job (when she wasn't going a little tunnel-happy herself). Hogan gave a mental shrug as he turned the device over again. Being thought insane was part of this job. This odd little piece of this mission had to be done and she'd done a good job of it.

Looking up at Kinchloe, Hogan said, "Looks good. You're sure it will work?"

Kinchloe nodded. "It's worked in every test. The battery… boy, I'd like to be able to make miniature dry-cell batteries like these… is charged and Iron America says it should last several days."

"Hopefully we won't need that much," Hogan said. "If all goes well, we'll be sending most of these people back where they belong tonight." He spared a moment of mental apology to Cat and Niente, whose London visit, once their role in the mission was accomplished, would become indefinite.

Hogan contemplated the device while Kinchloe waited patiently. The women had all just rolled their eyes with clear disgust when asked to sing that peculiar song. Despite Byakugan's 'magical'—if they could be called that—accoutrements, the others from 2008 seemed not to believe in magic, hence their dismissal of that song. Well, Hogan had dismissed it at first, too, until he'd realized it was possibly the single most important clue in how to deal with this time travel conundrum.

Handing the golden device back to Kinchloe, Hogan leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. All the pieces in this multi-time puzzle had to connect and wrap-around, so that song had to come from somewhere for that person in the future to find it to send back the message. The content of that message had been—as all the women had thought—useless. It was the existence of the message that was important. A _message_, not a person, had been sent through then. If it could be done once, it could be done again.

Hogan just needed an appropriate messenger.

* * *

**Byakugan789:**

When I woke up the morning after my talk with Hogan I took a long time thinking about the things he had said and done. What else was there to do? Hochstetter was busy incriminating Hogan for the bombing and Herzer, who had become too friendly, was no longer allowed to talk with me. It was a pity, really, he was at least intelligent conversation despite having to speak slowly for him.

I looked at the place the guards usually placed my plate when they were done playing with me. My dinner plate from last night was there, but my breakfast plate wasn't. Odd, it was near lunch time. I quickly ate the leftovers that Klink saw fit to send to me and waited for the lunch plate. The meals were always small and leftovers but they weren't half bad and I did at least get three per day. Lying around all day has a habit of lowering your daily energy requirements.

About an hour later Schultz came in with my lunch. The ponce was 'sampling' my lunch! It was my first good look at the living, breathing model, but I was still pissed off. Remembering an old movie my mom had shown us a few years back that had another Schultz in it, I grinned at this Schultz. He set the bowl and plate down and got out the keys to walk in and place my dinner on the center of the floor. My guards, as usual, took aim at me as soon as the keys appeared and relaxed after Schultz relocked the cage. With a forced ease I got up from the bench and walked over to my plate picked it up and walked back. Sitting down I lowered my larynx slightly and spoke to Schultz's retreating back. In a deeper voice that I normally used I called out "Herr Hans Schultz?"

He turned around, surprised. "Ja?" he replied.

"Sprechen Sie Englisch?" I quoted, still grinning and keeping my voice deepened.

"Ja, ja," he said beaming.

"Zen dropin' ze dead," I finished the quote watching his face closely and begging myself not to break out in a coughing/laughing fit.

His face soured after he managed to translate my words "Jolly joker," he grumbled, coming slightly closer to the cage. "You are much like Colonel Hogan, but he won't get a beating for being a rude fool. He ez a prisoner of war, you are not." As he spat on the ground and left in a huff, I lost my much needed control and broke down laughing. Somehow I managed to set my plate down beside me without spilling my food onto the floor, but I soon found myself doubled up there rolling over my painful bruises and laughing hysterically. I don't know how I managed it, but since my promised beating never came I felt I had finally gotten something good out of this. Maybe fate had started smiling upon my insanity.

* * *

It wasn't until later that evening that something else noteworthy happened. She came. That confounding conundrum of a woman calling herself _Samantha Pepper._ You wouldn't know it when you saw her walking in quivering but she would soon become a BIG problem. Problems needed solving. And Hogan thought I was a menace.

I looked over at her as she entered blinking slowly, and then turned and sat up on one side of the bench they had given me for a bed. She walked over shivering and eyeing my grey jumpsuit. Her eyes widened a little. Had she noticed my shirt? I thought it was well hidden. No, don't think she's a spy come to get some real information out of me. She just looks too real to be one. Hmm, the bruising then, that would indeed be cause for alarm. I barely felt them anymore, but they would probably still stand out.

"Sprechen Sie Englisch?" she asked, quite obviously trying to pronounce it correctly.

"I'm American," I muttered, and she nodded, smiling a little.

"How did you end up here?" she asked. I stiffened, and then relaxed some. Don't think the worst; she could be one of us, though I pity her if she was.

"It's complicated," I replied shortly, "How did _you _end up here? You don't look like the average prisoner."

Her expression became one of amusing shock. _A point to the bird,_ I thought. "What do you mean, _average prisoner?" _

Smirking, I shrugged. "I don't imagine they get many girls here."

"Are there _many _prisoners here?" she asked, ignoring my words. _And a point lost._

I raised an eyebrow. "It's a prison camp, isn't it? Did the watch drop you here, too?"

"Huh?" she said, inching away.

"The watch; you know the golden disk thing."

She looked around, probably for the watch. "What golden thing?" she asked.

"If you're not from the 21st century, where _are _you from?" I grumbled, getting annoyed.

Her eyes glazed over. "What century _is _this?" she asked cautiously.

"The Twentieth."

She swallowed. _Another point for you, I wonder if it'll be like Ping-Pong?_ "Err . . . You mean like the 1900s?"

"1943."

Shock was evident on her face. "How?" she asked.

I explained. She looked skeptical. When I mentioned Colonel Hogan she winced. _A point for or against though?_

"Hogan didn't tell you this, did he?" she asked when I finished_._

"No, why?"

"And he didn't help you . . . clarify it?" She was getting annoying.

"No. Who do you think I am, Klink?" I growled.

"I _hope _not," she said, quite tactlessly. I ignored her after that.

I got up and walked to the center of the cage and lay down on my back wincing as my arms came up to make a pillow behind the back of my head. She lay down on my bench looking pensive as well as I fell asleep. From that look I should have known she'd become a problem in the morning. I didn't. Shortly I went to sleep.

* * *

I woke up the next morning to pain. Pain was expected, you move oddly in your sleep and I had been beaten often this last week. Oddly enough the pain wasn't coming from my back which I found I was still on, but rather from my ribs. Or rather the finger poking them.

Growling and wincing, I opened my eyes and looked into the face of Ms Pepper. Suddenly flushing, she pointed to our breakfast plates. Slowly I got up and we had breakfast. It wasn't until later, at 1100 that morning, that the fun started. I suppose it's punishment for ignoring her since dinner.

She was sitting on the other end of the bench from me and twiddling her thumbs when Hochstetter walked in with two extra guards. _Bloody typical, though I suppose it's understandable with all of the 'treasure hunt' business I've been keeping him focused on. _The guards all leveled their guns at her and she paled and lifted her hands. I only rolled my eyes; it wasn't like they were going to break a possible golden egg this soon.

"Who are you?" the major asked roughly. _Missing your morning coffee?_ I thought keeping perfectly expressionless.

She gaped like a gold fish for a few seconds and Hochstetter began to get impatient. "Who are you?" the major asked again, and we saw one of the guards raising his hand.

"Don't! I'm-- Samantha Pepper!" she cried hurriedly.

"Where are you from?"

"America!" she blurted out.

"When was this written?" The major held up a book.

She looked at it in consternation. "It came out a few weeks ago." _I wonder what it's about, why does she have to block the view. Sigh._

"The date says two thousand and eight."

She nodded. "That's what year it is, isn't it, Sturmbannführer?" Hmm, at least the word seems to be odd to her.

"It is 1943," replied bouncing on the balls of his feet, elated.

She looked slightly shocked. "What? How--?"

"You know. The . . . watch."

"He--" she glanced at me-- "said something about a watch, Sturmbannführer."

"Yes. The time device."

"Yes, that's what a watch is." I grinned as one of Hochstetter's goons slapped her. _Spunk, at least I'm not the only one to be punished for such!_

"No, not that," Hochstetter continued as she rubbed her face, "It . . . moves in time."

"Time travel?" she asked skeptically.

"Ja."

"Is that how I got here?"

"Don't you know?" The major was puzzled.

"Haven't the foggiest," she lied. "One minute, I was reading peacefully, next I was out in the freezing air."

"I find it difficult to believe it was that simple."

She started to look queasy. "I swear I don't know how I got here! How could I? I'm certainly not a physicist!"

"But you could have been sent by people who were."

"The only scientists I know are zoologists! And they both work with computers now!"

Hochstetter looked confounded and Herzer, who I now saw behind one of the guards, looked amused. Apparently he hadn't told the major everything we had discussed. Hochstetter turned to him and spoke quickly in German. There was a rather long, irate exchange between the two in very fast German; it took a while to calm the major down. During the exchange Herzer blithely used Hochstetter's name and Samantha stiffened. _"Hochstetter?"_ she breathed, looking stunned.

The conversation abruptly cut off. "How do you know my name?"

She became rigid and replied "It's the name of a prominent politician, but you don't look anything like him." I snorted softly. _Nice save._ Only Herzer noticed, but thankfully he kept silent.

"An American politician?"

"Yes." She replied "He's quite old in my time-- I think he might be alive now. Or maybe not; they don't appoint many people who fought for America in World War II to high ranking positions." I looked at her oddly, what was her game? Was she a sellout? Had we changed something? What the devil was in that book of hers?

"Why not?" Hochstetter asked, fishing.

"Well, they can't really be trusted if they fought for Roosevelt, can they?" _Sellout, most definitely._ I sighed and lay further down on the bench.

"Why not?" came Hochstetter's low and guarded reply.

She did her best to sound confused."Would _you _trust them?" she asked.

"My country is at war with America," he replied snidely.

"Not in my time. It was _World_ War Two. Not the second Hundred Years War." _Huh? Second hundreds year war? Groan._

Hochstetter's reply was pained. "I do not think the Germany you know is the same as the one I do."

"Why not?" she asked, echoing his earlier question. "It hasn't changed that much."

Hochstetter growled suddenly and I grinned. _Hah! I am having an effect on your mind, you sick twisted bastard!_ "After America conquers it?"

She took a shocked breath and started to say the words that I would swear were to be her downfall. "What? That's not right!"

Hochstetter paused. "What does happen, then?" he asked in a strained voice, after a time.

She shrugged and replied. "Germany won. Didn't you know?" I shot up, no longer leaning against the wall, for a better view of the grand ponce's face. At the same time, Herzer asked Hochstetter what she was saying in a tone of voice that made his meaning, if not his exact words, clear.

Hochstetter answered tersely, and the civilian looked amazed, asked another question. Hochstetter shook his head and said, in English, "You're lying."

She started weaving. Was it from fear, or something else entirely? "I have it from a . . . _reputable_ source that that's not what happens," Hochstetter added. I beamed at Hochstetter and he glowered back, eyes promising us both worlds of pain. Ms Pepper looked between us, still weaving, and made the connection.

Panicked, the stoolie clutched at straws. "Maybe we're from different timelines. One where the Germans won and one where they didn't. Another leg of the Trousers of Time. I think I read a book like that once, except not the one with Time Travel in it." She was much less steady now, what was going on?_ "The Proteus Operation, _maybe, or was it _Weapons of Choice? _I know there was one like that, but I can't--" she collapsed.

"The weapons of choice…" I breathed, suddenly crouching over her.

"What are the weapons of choice?" Hochstetter snapped. He looked both excited at the prospect of more power and furious at Pepper for fainting.

"They're a set of books from our time, it was a theory really," I murmured. "But it's impossible. She's lying, there's no other possibility," I said firmly this time.

"And what if there was?" Hochstetter snapped. "What are these theories?" he asked, struggling to keep up with the longer words.

I looked up at him and sighed. "You're no Herzer Herrik so I'll try to keep this simple as I can. There is a theory among quantum physicists that every choice made and every event in the universe creates multiple timelines based on the different possibilities for such events. Some of these timelines are hardly distinguishable from one another, in one you could have forgotten to shave this morning, in another you could be getting married, in another maybe Hitler didn't invade Russia before settling with us and England. Some timelines are so different that the earth itself could be nothing but a cloud of dust or inhabited by nothing but shrimp. The point is that she is saying she could have come from an entirely different universe where Germany won and were you were benevolent enough not to destroy everything you touched. But as I said, that is impossible. The only two possibilities are that the others and I changed history, or she's lying through her teeth."

* * *

**Hochstetter (written by Hexiva):**

Hochstetter wasn't sure what to think. He didn't want to believe that the Third Reich was doomed to become a historical specter, hated by all. On the other hand, he didn't want to trust Pepper, either. He glanced down, glaring at her-- at her dark hair and brown skin. Why couldn't an Aryan from her timeline have been sent back, rather than some remnant of a subhuman race not worth the effort to kill?

"What if it's not a lie?" asked Herzer, and Hochstetter, who wanted to know as well, translated that into English.

"It wouldn't happen. It would create a temporal paradox. Those are bad in case you haven't guessed."

"A temporal para-- _was?_" English! If there were no other reason to hate a future in which the Allies had won, English would be that reason. At least French was _consistently _incomprehensible.

"Paradox, Major, a paradox. For us to have come back in time the events that led us to such an action would have to remain stable. If anything we did changed what made us come here and act as we did then we would not have come here to change things in the first place. Time can be bent, but it is not fluid. If something we change has no ultimate effect on what _has_ happened to make us come here and act as we did it will become what happened but if what we change makes us act in any way different than it will stay as it was. Fixed. Immutable."

"But if fate is 'immutable', why did the first man come back in the first place?" Herzer asked.

"Point taken, Herr Herrik," Byakugan said after it had been translated for him, and Hochstetter wondered who Herrik was.

"Guards," Hochstetter said, after a moment's though, "take Pepper to a different cell and inform me when she wakes up. Use one of the better cells and put a fresh tick on the bed." He added in a smirk for Byakugan's benefit. "Good day, Herr Byakugan." At least Byakugan was Aryan. Could this Pepper really be trusted?

* * *

**Byakugan789:**

Hochstetter, the extra guards, and the unconscious Miss Pepper left, leaving my usual two riflemen and Herzer Herrik.

We had to speak slowly to have a real conversation but at least he was interesting company. "Ryu for your thoughts, Herrik-san? You seem disturbed."

"You shouldn't wonder why, Herr Byakugan. You and this time travel predicament only increase my confusion with every minute I think about it. Though I do appreciate your faith in my abilities." He said smiling. "But this Fraulein Pepper… her presence is… wrong somehow."

"Hmm… I didn't notice. Be careful with her though. Her fast tongue is likely to get her in trouble. That and it keeps you from translating what she's saying. She's a security hazard, if the others know about her they will act to keep her from talking. Try not to tell the major, but be wary of the others."

"I'll keep that in mind, Herr Byakugan. We'll be moving you back to the base later today. Try not to resist, I'd rather you stay among the living." And with that he followed Hochstetter out of the cooler.

* * *

**Hochstetter:**

Herzer caught up to Hochstetter.

"Major, why did the girl pass out?"

Hochstetter frowned. "Why do you care?"

"Well, what if she's got--" Herzer broke off, remembering Hochstetter's diatribe on the 'time sickness'.

"Don't." Hochstetter said, shortly.

Herzer decided that an urgent change of subject was required here. "What's in her book?"

Hochstetter looked down at it and hesitated. He'd had a look at it earlier, and he was convinced he was mistranslating. While he had been quite, quite certain that he knew what the English word _cat _meant, he was equally certain that, in the context, it must mean something other than _katze. _Then again, the picture on the cover clearly showed a pair of cats.

"It's in some sort of code," he told Herzer.

"Have you been able to break it?"

"I haven't tried yet," Hochstetter admitted.

* * *

**Hogan:**

From a time when the Nazis won and dominated the world…

Hogan rubbed his temple. Had they all been lying to him? Or was just this one lying to Hochstetter?

Or… the though occurred to him not for the first time… was the whole bunch part of some elaborate Gestapo scheme?

Pushing himself upright, Hogan moved rapidly across the compound to intercept Klink and Hochstetter.

"I protest, again, Herr Kommandant, you allowing this man to abuse an American prisoner of war. I demand this young man be released from the Cooler and treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention," Hogan said. Hochstetter would never do it, but form, and all the parts being properly played required this.

A low growl began in Hochstetter's throat, but Klink cut in before Hochstetter could speak. "Hogan. That young man is a civilian prisoner of the Gestapo. A spy. He was captured in civilian clothes in a secure military facility. I'm seeing to it he's being properly fed, but other than that, it's out of my hands," Klink threw up his hands to emphasize the 'out of' part.

"Those weren't civilian clothes…" Hogan started. Hochstetter went on point.

Klink almost laughed. "You are trying to call that costume he was wearing a uniform?"

Hogan shrugged and let that go. "Did I also not see a woman being brought in last night? That is entirely unacceptable. And—" He lowered his voice conspiratorially, glancing around to see in anyone was near. "—I heard a rumor she's got this same illness the rest of these goo… SS men have. Kommandant, I can't believe you'd let the major spread a plague in your camp."

"Plague!" Klink squawked. He turned to Hochstetter, who Hogan could see had been straining to understand everything being said in English, unwilling as always to admit he didn't. Switching to German, Klink demanded of Hochstetter, "Major, you said these men just had the flu. Now if they have a plague being spread by time travelers…"

A snarl from Hochstetter cut off Klink. Scrutinized by Hochstetter to see if he'd understood what Klink let slip about time travelers, Hogan maintained a bland expression.

"Both prisoners are being removed from here tonight," Hochstetter said. Hogan could see the gears turning in his evil little mind. Hogan hadn't taken the bait here in camp. Maybe he would elsewhere? "Will that be satisfactory, Herr Kommandant?"

"Yes, Major," Klink conceded. "Dismissed, Hogan," he added, throwing a perfunctory salute his way.

"Enjoy the party with your lady friends," Hogan added as he started away. He paused. "You're sure you don't need my men to serve?"

"No. Frau Brosch's cousin is bringing her maid," Klink said.

As Hogan walked away he could feel Hochstetter's eyes burning into him. Everything Jessica and Linda had told him about what the Nazis were doing ran through his mind again. At any cost, the future Miss Samantha Pepper spoke of could not allowed to be.

* * *

From the barracks, Hogan watched Klink's staff car drive in. Jessica, Linda, and Tuttle stepped out. Tuttle was led by Schultz back toward the kitchen, where LeBeau was working. Jessica was greeted by Klink and led up toward the steps, followed by Linda who paused to look around the camp.

Across the compound, he saw Hochstetter and the scientist—Herzer—along with some of the SS guards leading Miss Pepper out. She covered her eyes, then looked about. Had Hochstetter planned the timing? He must have, for the young lady stopped, staring pointedly toward Linda and Jessica.

_Linda_. Is that what she said? Hogan was good at reading lips, and had a pilot's sharp vision, but he couldn't be sure. Then he was sure. Hogan saw Hochstetter point and his face darkened. A short conversation followed. Hochstetter spun and marched in Linda's direction.

Uh, oh.


	54. Linda and GSJessica 2

**Linda and GSJessica**

**GSJessica:**

I was going to feel rather like a fifth wheel on the mission tonight. But that suited me just fine, believe me! Me, all I had to do was hang out with Klink and act like nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Maybe provide a little distraction now and then, and chat it up with the time travel scientists; try and drag a little nerd talk out of them. That was fine. I'm more than a bit of a techno-nerd myself and, as a writer, am quite good at getting people's stories from them. All in all, just a routine evening for me. So I kept telling myself.

Linda had to deal with Hochstetter and get some 'magical' glove from him. Scary enough on its own, though I'm sure Tuttle's and my teasing about her having to get Hochstetter out of his clothes helped her immensely to stay calm and focused! She also had to try to coax him into giving us a tour of the time lab, but that was a back-up plan, Hogan had told us. It would be easier to have us moving freely on the inside of the lab, but he really expected they'd go with Jake's plan to assault the place. And how cool one of us could actually come up with something like that! I mean, I personally regretted each and every one of us who got dropped back here in 1943 Nazi Germany, because, well, I started it, but the array of talents of the people in our group were certainly working out well to get us back home.

In retrospect Tuttle's assignment would be the one that would seem especially cool, just as her little foray out on the sabotage mission had. However, as it was happening—as with the sabotage mission—it would no doubt seem just heart-stoppingly terrifying. I don't know what had possessed her to tag along with Carter. And she wouldn't really tell us about it, just got unusually quiet and took our mom-like remonstrations without even a hint of argument. Some day I hope she will tell us about it. I suspect the reality of a sabotage mission turned out to be just that: all too real.

So here we were, me, Linda, and Tuttle, all in Klink's staff car riding toward Stalag 13 and the most important, and dangerous, event we'd faced so far in this time. In a way I was glad Klink had sent Schultz in his staff car to pick us up. Driving that "Hi, I'm an American spy!" Ford of Olsen's made me feel conspicuous. And double-clutching in high heels was a secondary nightmare. On the other hand, I regretted we couldn't talk with each other on the ride, being aware Schultz understood English, and his absolute 'see nothing/know nothing' from the television show might be rather more fictional than real. So we stayed silent. I did have to repress a chuckle or two at Schultz humming, and occasionally singing snatches of that 'Mary Sue' song he'd heard in the Barracks that day that seemed like an eternity ago.

Tuttle, next to Schultz in the front seat, in her French maid's outfit, kept twisting around to glance back at Linda and I. As our 'servant' she naturally wouldn't ride in back with us. Unlike on the television show, Carter and Newkirk wouldn't be playing busboys tonight. We'd offered our maid, Mimi/Tuttle for the role. She'd flirt with the scientists, yet have a free run of the place. Yet she could still—if all went well—slip away unnoticed for the necessary span of time.

LeBeau would be the chef, however. That part of the TV show was apparently real. I had decided I'd skip the _hors d'oeuvres_. Marinated dog food, drugs… either way, I wanted no part. I was too nervous to eat much, anyhow. As far as Hogan, I wasn't sure about his invariably attending any of Klink's gatherings, however. The couple times I'd been to Stalag 13 as Klink's guest, there had been no encounters with Colonel Hogan. Maybe that was all overplayed in the fictional version. You know, the star of the show has to be in every scene.

As we entered the camp, I noticed a truck, with Hochstetter, and some SS guards bringing someone toward it. I only had a momentary glimpse, however, of the figure in the gray jumpsuit before Klink was at the car door, greeting me and Linda warmly (and casting an appreciative eye over Mimi/Tuttle—saw her cringe, too), and ushering us into his quarters. Schultz led Tuttle away. Linda paused on the steps and scanned the Stalag 13 compound. It was a natural thing to do, it being her first time here other than inside Barracks Two. We didn't realize at that moment, though, the consequences of that innocent moment, when her face showed clearly to Hochstetter and his prisoner by the truck.

* * *

**Linda:**

We're just about to move into Klink's quarters when Major Hochstetter moves purposefully towards us. I'd like to say it was a friendly approach—_How exciting; they're here!_—but it's not. I mean, it's _really_ not. It's more like the "Hochstetter's on a rampage" walk like I've seen on the television show, which seems so very, very far removed from reality right now. I paste on a welcoming, delighted smile, try to let some of that falseness shine into my eyes, and turn to him as he storms up the stairs.

"Wolfgang—you got here first!" I gush. I see his face tighten. His eyes narrow, he is trying to see right through me. I feel cold, the kind of cold that races through me when I'm onstage and someone says the wrong line—or worse, no line at all. The kind of cold that means I have to do a little two-step to try and save the day. The kind of cold that says, _Get this right, or you're all dead, and in front of an audience, no less._ I don't usually mean it quite so literally.

Today, I do.

I furrow my brow, let my lips move into an "oh," and slip back into a combination of French and English. "_Vous êtes_—" I correct myself, go back into the more familiar French that he encouraged earlier in the evening—"_Tu es_ mad on me?" He continues to look at me, saying nothing. A storm is raging in his mind. I can almost see it in his eyes. He's thinking about our time in the Hofbrau. And clearly, he's thinking about something else, too. Something I'd find even less appealing than the cozying up we did before.

But he doesn't know quite what to do.

I seize that tiny opportunity and pout, letting my eyes turn into dark pools of worry (that part isn't hard). "Wolfgang?"

That one word seems to have decided him. "Come with me," he says without preamble, grabbing me by the arm away from Jessica and from Klink, who, I notice quickly tries to usher her inside his quarters. Quite gallant, I'm sure, though the tiniest part of me wonders if he's going to try to take advantage of her while they can be alone. But... no... if Klink is anything remotely like he tries to be, occasionally, on the show, then there's a streak of righteousness in him. And if there isn't, Jessica won't let him take her too far away from me. I hope.

I try to laugh coquettishly as Hochstetter pulls me along and across to the cooler, where a guard is standing with—oh my God. A woman. A girl, really. But a woman. And she's clearly one of us—I mean—one of the stupid, idiotic people who just _had_ to touch that stupid key in that stupid box in those stupid National Archives in that stupid city known as Washington D.C.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

And clearly, this one had given something away. Something involving me.

"Look at this girl," Hochstetter orders abruptly.

I don't know if he's talking to her or to me. I look at her, my face totally blank, and blink. "So?" I ask. "You want me to find nicer clothes for her?"

"Do you know her?" he asks, ignoring me. He's now addressing her. Whoever _her_ is. While his attention is on her, and her eyes are on me, my eyebrows shoot up my forehead. Maybe I can make her understand, if she is what she appears to be.

The girl seems frightened, shakes her head quickly. A little too much like she's trying to be convincing. "No," she says. "No, I don't know her."

Hochstetter pulls her a little closer, we're almost toe to toe now. He's clearly scaring her. _Keep your cool, Linda... Keep your cool._ "Look closer. When she was all the way across camp, you thought you knew her. Who is she?" he persists.

The girl shakes her head again. "She's not who I thought she was," she says. "I mean, who I thought she looked like. She's not the right height," she babbles. "And she's... older."

_Older!_ It's a good time for me to speak up. "Older! Wolfgang, if I had known you were going to bring me to this _gamin_ for her to insult me and make fun on me, I would never have let you be so nice to me at the Hofbrau. You seemed like such a fine officer, but you are a wolf in a lamb's clothes—you are not worthy of my friendship. I shall tell my cousin that she will take me away from here, and let her stay with the only gentleman I have met in Germany so far—_Kommandant Klink_!" I spin away from him and start walking back toward Klink's quarters without waiting to see what impact my words have had.

Clearly, the impact is big. I was hoping it would be. I hear a loud growl, a slightly softer curse in German, and an order for the girl to be moved—somehow. I can't understand that, precisely. I hope she's okay, but honestly, I'm worried more about me at the moment. I didn't give her away, and she didn't give me away—any more than she apparently already had. At least she denied me when forced. _(Older!!)_

"Cosette, Cosette—_please_," Hochstetter is suddenly calling just behind my right ear. I keep walking, actually increase my speed a little, make him work to catch up. "_S'il vous plaît,"_ he says. "_Liebling_." How many languages is this guy gonna try? "You can't mean that—you could not believe that Klink is more of a gentleman than I am," he says, almost ingratiatingly.

I turn on him, fire in my eyes, amazed at his ego, and letting out all my fear and anger of this entire situation in one "if looks could kill" stare. "If Colonel Klink would not drag me across a dirty prison camp and try to force me to look at some filthy little tramp and make accuses at me, then he is much more a gentleman than you!" I say. _Wow, that actually wasn't bad!_

It takes everything in me not to look around and see what Klink's reaction is to that little declaration. I know he's in earshot; I made sure of it myself. But I'm an actress; I know I can't always see what's happening behind me. I just wish I could know for certain that I'd be able to check this out later on the DVD. I'll have to ask Jessica—if we get out of this alive.

As I continue the stare, I wonder if Hochstetter might remotely believe me. He is silent for a moment—about ten minutes, judging from the way I feel. About five seconds, by real time. Then his face melts into a charming smile, and hesitantly, he places a gloved hand on one of my forearms. "Cosette," he says soothingly, almost pleadingly, "please. That was an act—a _show_ for a prisoner. I had to do that in order to get her to tell me the truth. To get her to be frightened of me. She said she thought she recognized you. I knew that wasn't true. But I thought if I forced the two of you face to face that she might give something of herself away, if she was trying to be deceptive with me."

I raise my chin, offended. "You did not tell me," I say, accusingly.

"There was no time. I promise I meant you no disrespect. It is the work I do," he shrugs. "Please, do not let it spoil our time together."

I _(gag) _melt then. "Very well," I say, gracing him with a smile. "Since you are being honest with me now. And I shall be honest with you as well."

Hochstetter gives a small start. "Honest? How?"

I pause, then look him straight in the eye and say, "I am not as old as she obviously thinks!"

I let this sink in, and then we both smile, and turn to go back up the stairs to a waiting—and clearly recovering—Klink, and Jessica. "_Cousine_, I have just been part of the fascinating work of the Gestapo! Let us go inside and talk of it. There is so much more I want to learn."

And just like that, the crisis is over. For just a fleeting second, I think, _Is __**this**__ what Hogan does every time he's with Hochstetter? It's a wonder he's not totally grey!_

* * *

**Jessica:**

That convenient habit men expect of females to bolt to the bathroom together—"we must freshen up"—worked for us. I got Linda by the wrist and led her straight back. She looked like she was okay, a little triumphant even, having gotten past a crisis successfully. I, on the other hand, was panicked and needed to regroup.

You see, I clearly saw what Linda could not: The expression in Hochstetter's eyes as she turned away from him to go up the steps. As she turned, his smile dropped and in his eyes was a cold, black suspicion.

Hochstetter looked over to meet my eyes. A calculated glance. I held the stare as long and steadily as I could. Micro-seconds, at least! I felt Klink's hand tighten on my arm in that moment, then he babbled meaningless niceties and got me in the door.

I had tried to follow Linda—_Cosette_—and Hochstetter across the compound, but Klink had stopped me.

"No," he said, quietly but firmly.

"But, that man is taking L… Cosette," I protested, making us at least stay on the porch and not go in. I would not abandon her.

"No," Klink repeated. "I know you're afraid of him, but you're safe with me."

Sweet. Unconvincing, but sweet. But what about Linda? No promises of safety for the _French_ girl.

Across the compound, I saw Colonel Hogan discretely watching. Right. We weren't in this alone. Though, it occurred to me, Hogan wanted Linda and I to get into the time lab. Maybe he wasn't fussy as to whether it was as guests or Gestapo prisoners.

Then they were back and Hochstetter was doing his panting puppy routine and Linda was doing the meltingly enamored with the evil slug look and my stomach was turning. I noticed her English had conveniently gotten really good, though she kept the French accent and cadence flawlessly. Did Hochstetter notice?

Inside Klink's quarters, I hooked Tuttle/Mimi with a jerk of my head. She followed us into Klink's bedroom where, doing her ladies' maid act, she took our coats, easing the door closed after making a small show of it for Hochstetter. I stepped into the bathroom and leaned against the sink. My face in the mirror looked fairly well terrified. Linda's a darned good actor, but me? I don't play poker. Everything shows on my face; can't help it. Oh well, I reassured myself, Hochstetter was used to being looked at with fear by German civilians. He expected it.

Tuttle/Mimi and Linda gathered at the bathroom door, with Tuttle whispering that she'd had a message from Colonel Hogan (From the glow in her eyes, I suspect getting to say that was a bit of a 'squee' moment for her). The girl being taken out _might_ be one of us, or might not. She'd claimed, Tuttle repeated to us from Hogan, to be from an alternate future where the Nazis won the war. Hogan wanted us to have that info, especially after the scene in the compound, in case we needed to use it. Alternate history? Sure, I read lots of those. I could play that, if need be.

We whispered about it between us, with me at least feeling more buoyed up as we did so. We recalled the art of confusion always played on the television show, with pure absurdity being a primary tool the TV-Hogan used. Having been entrenched in the reality of here-and-now as long as I had, I'd somewhat forgotten that this reality had spawned that fictional portrayal—and the fictional ploys we knew so well were things we could use. Play it straight for Hochstetter, but if pushed into a corner, _don't_ cave in and play the cowering civilian about to be hauled away. Be the Mighty Agents From the Future sent back to check on Hochstetter's pivotal role in the Thousand Year Reich's glorious beginnings. Talk about Hochstetter's glorious future as the _Second_ Fuehrer.

My opinion of the girl in the compound who'd almost got us caught with her tale shifted from anger to admiration. Yes, she'd caused us some problems (assuming she really wasn't from some alternate timeline—who knew?), but I had to admire the quick-thinking to play the Gestapo that way.

Regrouped, we started back toward the living room and Hochstetter and Klink. I overheard Hochstetter talking about time travelers and Klink protesting that he'd known me for _years_ and I couldn't possibly be… And then they broke off as the saw the bedroom door opening and the three of us rejoining them. Tuttle scooted off toward the kitchen. Linda and I headed toward our 'dates'.

A few of the time scientists had entered, looking as geeky and ill-at-ease as was normal at a social gathering, especially one with women present. One looked somewhat sick. They all had drinks, though, and should be starting to get loose-tongued before too long. Regrettably, the head scientist, Herzer had left the camp with the girl.

I approached Klink, calm now. He reached to take my arm, smiling warmly at me. My smile for him was genuine. I'd overheard him lying for me. Years, indeed. He'd known me barely three weeks. Was this Klink, the real Klink, a different man from the cringer in the TV show? Could I rely on him? Then I saw it.

On the end table, against the lamp, was the tube of lip gloss I'd left with Klink. One of the time anachronism 'bread crumbs'.

Hochstetter, alert to every move or gesture Linda or I made, apparently caught my sudden flick of attention downward. But before he could follow my eyes, Klink's hand moved out smoothly, without a break in what he was saying, covered the lip gloss tube and transferred it into his pocket. Hochstetter didn't see a thing.

I met Klink's bright blue eyes and a significant moment passed between us. You know, there was no faking. I really did like the guy.


	55. Combined chapter 2

**Beam Me Up, Scotty**

**by Tuttle, GSJessica, and Byakugan**

**Tuttle:**

I'm a scaredy cat. Or a chicken. Or any other animal metaphor that could mean I'm a coward. Really. I have a list of fears this long with everything from mice to heights on it.

But when there's something I want to or have to do, I'm fairly good at ignoring my terror and just doing it. I had pushed aside my fear of heights to climb Huayna Picchu and I had ignored my fear of the unknown to go into Hammelburg. I could certainly do it again. Although, in both those instances, my mental health hadn't been teetering on the edge as it was now.

Golly, I had to get out of this whole ridiculous situation soon. When I got back home, I swore I was going to flip and I actually would end up in Ponoka.

But right now, I just concentrated on what I needed to do. I followed Schultz away from the car and around the corner of Klink's quarters.

"Hey, Schultzie!" a voice called quietly and I stopped with the big guard and turned. Newkirk was sneaking his way towards us.

"Newkirk! What are you doing here?" Schultz bellowed, looking around to see if anyone was watching. "You are supposed to be in the barracks. Orders of the Kommandant- no prisoners allowed out after dark. Especially tonight! Oh, I must report you."

Newkirk grinned and held up his hands. "Easy mate, easy. Can't blame a bloke for being curious. I was just wondering how you came to be in such fine company," he said, nodding towards me. "What will the Kommandant say when he sees you sneaking off with one of his guests?"

"She is not a guest," Schultz informed him and I felt a little offended at his tone. "She is the maid. I am taking her to LeBeau in the kitchen."

"Tell you what Schultz, forget LeBeau. Have her come into the barracks and look after us! The old barracks could use a little tidying up." Before Schultz could react, Newkirk grabbed my hand and started pulling me towards the compound. "Come then love, when you're done tidying, I'm sure we can find something else for you to do," he said with a little wink.

"Newkirk!" Schultz grabbed him by the collar and shook him. Newkirk let go of me and freed himself from Schultz, turning to face the German. "You can't take her!"

"Well, that doesn't seem to be fair, now does it mate! You can't expect to waltz a pretty thing like that about the compound and not expect to share! I mean, it's been a long time, mate. And what about-"

Newkirk had successfully gained Schultz's attention, leaving me off to the side. What did he think he was doing?! I couldn't understand it, but it all became clear when someone grabbed my arm and pulled me into the shadows.

"Sh!" Colonel Hogan said when he saw I was going to cry out. It took me a moment to realize who it was and when I did, my curiosity piqued. What was this all about. "Have to talk to you."

"Bit of a flimsy distraction, don't you think?" I hissed, nodding over to Newkirk and Schultz. The look Hogan gave me was a mix of amusement and annoyance that _I_ would question his scheme.

"And it won't last long, so shut up," he said, rather forcefully. "Look, see that girl over there?" From the shadows, Hogan poked his head around the corner and pointed across the compound. My heart nearly stopped as panic flushed through me. Linda and Hochstetter were by a car, looking at a girl. What was going on?! Was Linda in trouble? "She may or may not be one of you. She says she's from an alternate universe where the Nazis won the war. See what you can find out about her."

Oh golly, what if we had done that? What if it was the same timeline that we had changed by coming back? Did that still make it an alternate timeline? Were we going back to the same place we left?!

I turned to question Hogan, but he was gone- just disappeared. I looked about and barely saw him slip into the shadows by his hut. Boy, that guy was good! A real spook.

By this time, Schultz had had enough of arguing with Newkirk. "Enough! Now go to your barracks or I will shoot!" Schultz growled, although he was unarmed- he had left his rifle in the car. "And I will leave orders that anyone else caught outside the barracks will be shot on the spot!"

Newkirk held his hands up in surrender. "All right mate, if that's the way you want it. But when the boys find out you've been keeping those birds to yourself, you'll have a riot, you will!" And with that, he turned and slunk back across the compound.

"Prisoners," Schultz muttered. He turned to me and gave me an apologetic look. "This way, please, mademoiselle."

* * *

Learning about Linda's run-in with Hochstetter did nothing to ease my mind and the fear I felt. Despite this, however, I was in my element. I love talking to people and I especially love to make them laugh and scientists were so easily charmed. Though I don't think they understood everything I said- my words were a mix of French and heavily accented English- they were certainly delighted to have a young, pretty girl serving them and talking with them.

Of course, I was supposed to be inconspicuous so I could easily slip out without anyone noticing. I had forgotten that. I had also forgotten that I was just supposed to be the maid, not a guest. As it turned out, I would get so caught up in a conversation that I would forget to circulate around the room. The guests would have to come to me to grab hors d'oeuvres from the tray I was holding. And when they did, they too would get caught up in the conversation taking place and would stay to be part of it.

"If only you had heard his cry after dinner," I said with a laugh. The scientists were already laughing, already in on the joke. "I never saw him again! I cannot say I was heartbroken."

"Methylene blue," a scientist by the name of Doktor Drebber laughed. "We have all played that joke." That earned him a few chuckles of agreement. "You are most… charming, my dear."

I smiled sweetly, batting my eyelashes and otherwise pretending to be completely flattered. Aw heck, I was flattered. "Oh merci. Je le sais. Je pense que- I think you are most charming aussi. And handsome," I added. Ah, nothing like stroking the ego of a geek, really. Drebber stammered and blushed, earning a round of laughter from the others.

"You look as if you did not know," I teased.

"Mimi!"

"I must tell you about the time-"

"Mimi!"

Oh, that was me! "Pardonez-moi, s'il vous plaît," I said with a quick curtsy. I squeezed past the crowd and bounded up to Linda, who was standing rather uncomfortably close to Hochstetter. Jessica and Klink were standing with them. "Oui, Madam?"

"You forget your place," she admonished in English, glancing at Hochstetter as if that were for his benefit.

I squirmed sheepishly. "I am most sorry," I said to both her and her companions. "But I-"

"Mimi," Linda warned, casting her eyes towards the kitchen to remind me that LeBeau was waiting for me.

"Ah, oui. D'accord. Madams, messieurs." And with that I hightailed it to the kitchen.

"Having a good time?" LeBeau asked darkly.

"Yeah, thanks for asking."

LeBeau just scowled. "Here." He handed me a tray with a few covered bowls. "Take this to the men stationed in and around Klink's office."

"It, uh, seasoned?" I asked. LeBeau nodded. "Gotcha." I turned to go back out into the party.

"Out that door," LeBeau hissed, pointing to the door that led outside. "We don't want your friends in there to steal some of that."

"Oh, right," I said with a quick nod before scurrying out the back door. I made it around the building without incident. It wasn't until I reached the door to Klink's office that I was stopped.

"Halt!" the guard posted outside barked, pointing his rifle at me. "Was ist-"

"Le Kommandant, he sent me with food for you," I said quickly, coming up the steps. "He is in a… pleasant mood tonight, I think."

The guard looked at me suspiciously, but I think my sweet smile won him over. That, or the fact that the food really did smell delicious. I was tempted to take a bite myself, knowing full well it was laced with sedatives.

"Danke," he said, grabbing a covered plate and some utensils.

"Oh, please, you cannot eat this standing up," I said. "You must go inside and sit. It will only be for a few moments."

The guard pursed his lips and looked around. Then he checked his watch. "Okay," he said finally and I felt relieved. It probably wouldn't have been a good thing if he had fallen asleep outside. Though, I worried, which would be more noticeable? I sleeping guard or an absent one?

The guard opened the door and ushered me inside. There were two more guards posted in Hilda's office. One was simply pacing the room, the other was sitting behind the desk, his feet propped up. I blood ran cold when I noticed they weren't wearing the same uniform the first guard was. I was no expert, of course, but it wasn't hard to tell that these guys were from the SS.

"Bonsoir, messieurs," I greeted. The one stopped pacing and the other looked up from cleaning his fingernails to watch me. "I bring you food. Compliments of the Kommandant." I eyed the one guard's feet, arching an eyebrow. When he moved them, I placed the tray down.

"That is… generous of him," the one SS guard said suspiciously.

I shrugged. "Love does strange things to a man," I said with a tiny grin. "We have a saying in France-"

"Never mind, never mind," the other SS guard said as he sat up straight in his seat. I was actually glad for the interruption because I really hadn't had an old saying to begin with. He took grabbed a bowl and took off the lid, breathing in the rich smell. "Wunderbar."

"Is there anyone in that room?" I asked, pointing to Klink's office. "I could go bring more if-"

"There is no one else," one of them assured me. I nodded and with a little curtsy, I left the office.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I was making my way back to the office.

It hadn't been easy to get away from the party. Dr. Drebber had apparently been waiting for me to return and was upon me the moment I stepped out from the kitchen, ready for more conversation and flattery. He was a likeable sort of guy- though I would say the same of anyone who laughed at my jokes the way he did- but I didn't have the time for him. I had kept an eye on the clock, carefully keeping track of the minutes as they passed. If it hadn't been for Jessica and Klink interrupting us, I would've still been talking to Drebber.

I checked my wrist, only to remember I didn't have a watch on. Curses. Well, if LeBeau was to be believed- and how could I not believe him?- I still had a good twenty minutes to get into that safe and take out the time device.

The guard wasn't at his post outside and from the lack of activity and noise, it seemed no one had noticed yet. Good.

I jogged up the steps and cautiously opened the door and poked my head in. All three guards were sound asleep. One had dropped a spoonful of food onto his lap. Carefully, I slipped into the room and inspected them. Well, they certainly didn't seem like they were faking it. I flicked one's ear, just to be sure. He made a little noise and I nearly jumped out of my skin. But when he did nothing more, I calmed down.

The door to Klink's office was unlocked and I carefully opened it. It was empty and I saw, to my delight that it looked exactly the way it did in the TV show- right down to the ridiculous helmet and cigar box on his desk.

The safe was right by the window. I fished the combination Newkirk had given me the night before out of my apron pocket and squinted at it through the darkness. The only light came from through the open door behind me but it was enough- I hoped. I didn't want to turn on the light in the room, just in case someone noticed it from outside.

I knelt in front of the safe and fiddled with the combination lock. I hadn't used a combination lock since high school- which was longer off than I want to admit- so it took me a few tries, but finally I managed to open it.

The little light there was in the room didn't do much to illuminate the inside of the safe. Scrunching my nose, I reached in, but suddenly stopped myself, my hand hovering in the air. It was improbable that they would leave the gold thing just lying about, but I couldn't be sure. And if I touched it with my bare hands, who knew when or where I would end up. Covering my hand with my apron, I felt around the inside of the safe. My hand finally fell onto a box and I eagerly pulled it out. A few papers fell out as I did so and I quickly gathered them up. My curiosity though, wouldn't let me put them back in until I looked them over. I didn't get much from them- they were all in German- but just the thought that I had perhaps looked at top secret papers thrilled me.

I put them back after a moment and instead turned by attention to the box. There was no lock on it- which I thought was rather silly if it did contain what I thought it did- so there was no problem opening it.

Good.

I let out a sigh of relief. This was what I had come for. Inside the box were two shiny, round objects- sort of like tripped out pocket watches. Wait? Two? There were two?

I dumped the two out and put the fake one LeBeau had passed to me in the box, putting it back into the safe, then looked down at the two others.

Well, I would have to take them both. The question was, where would I hide them? My pockets weren't deep enough and even if they were, they gold objects would be rather bulky and noticeable. I grabbed the watches with my apron and looked myself over. No where else to hide them. Drat. I wish I had thought this through.

I was so busy wondering where I would hide the watches I barely noticed the outside door open. "Mimi?" a voice called. "Mimi, I… Was ist los?!" There were heavy footsteps and suddenly, the room became very bright. I jumped to my feet and whirled around. Dr. Drebber was standing in the door way. "What is going on? What are you doing? What is-"

My heart slammed against my chest so hard that it was hard to breathe. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!! I stared at Dr. Drebber in shock, my mind racing a mile a minute as it tried to come up with an explanation.

"You, you are a spy? I must tell-"

"Quick, Doctor Drebber, catch!" I said, almost without thinking as I threw the gold watches into the air. I don't know if it was out of instinct or because he didn't want them to break, but he lunged forward and caught them.

And instantly disappeared.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

And then, as the saying goes, all hell broke loose, and everything began to happen at once.

Linda had been busy getting Hochstetter drunk, and fending him off without making it seem like she was fending him off. She was quite artful about it, making it seem she was a bit of a lush herself, which had him trying to keep up. I thought Linda—I mean Cosette—didn't drink, did she? Then I saw her discretely tipping her glass into Hochstetter's. He never seemed to notice. I think he was distracted by one of those trick outfits of hers. Unfortunately, he seemed to be quite well practiced at holding his liquor. That and his ceaseless suspicion that she was one of the time travelers he sought kept him focused and sober. His comments and questions grew ever more probing.

Speaking of probing, Klink was working on getting drunk on his own which meant I had to fend him off more and more, and would soon have to cease worrying whether I was nice about it. What was the expected payoff for possibly saving me from an excruciating, torturous death at the hands of the Gestapo? How about a friendly handshake? Cripes. I'm married… or would be in several decades. Did that count? It certainly did for me. Tempting, I must say, purely for research purposes, mind you, but… eww! No!

The planned conversations to draw out the scientist geeks (Where did Hochstetter pick up the term "nerd herd"?!), pretty much failed on mine and Linda's parts. Our fine, young French maid Mimi, a.k.a. Tuttle, was in full swing on that front however. Linda and I, both clock-watching, had to nudge her back a couple times to her more critical role.

At the correct time, I noticed Tuttle slip away with tray for the guards in Klink's office. About this time, one of Hochstetter's goons slipped in and handed him a message—two messages, actually. His face darkened as he read them. This Hochstetter may have been somewhat different looking than the TV show Hochstetter (more handsome, I guess, or so Linda claimed; couldn't see it myself), but he shared many of the same traits. When he was angry or frustrated it showed on his face in a vivid, and for anyone around him, terrifyingly dangerous way.

Hochstetter crumpled the first note tightly in his fist, as though crushing the life out of it, then opened the second note, holding it out slightly under the light.

Klink and I eased closer (he was getting easier to steer the more he drank).

"What's that, Major?" Klink asked loudly. The scientists, temporarily deprived of Mimi, drew nearer, too.

I could see Linda trying to read over his shoulder without seeming to try to read the note.

"A message," Hochstetter said in a growl, "intercepted last night from somewhere in this area. No one's been able to decode it."

"Let me see," Klink said, snatching the note from Hochstetter's hand. This impulsive move let me read what was on the paper, which was mostly a report in terse, formal German, but with one vivid, sort-of-English bit in the middle. Then Klink read that part out loud. "_Check Gringotts for note from Eloi. Beam up set for tomorrow 2100," _he read in a puzzled tone. The scientists murmured speculation amongst themselves.

Linda and I exchanged a glance. Most of this conversation must have been lost on her, for the Germans had all switched into their own language, but the intercepted message jumped out bright and clear. It had to be from Hogan. He must have pre-arranged a message code with Cat and Niente in London, I realized. No one else in this time would understand the words "Gringotts" or "beam up". What else hadn't Hogan told us?

But Eloi… note from Eloi… the word was familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. Not from _Star Trek_. I know my Trek quite well.

"Gibberish," Hochstetter said, still with a bit of that growl.

Klink scowled, then jabbed his finger at one word on the note, the one I was puzzling over. Eloi.

"Eloi. I know this. They're the future people from 'The Time Machine'," he announced.

"What?!" squawked Hochstetter.

"Yes," Klink went on eagerly. I wanted to smack him. This was not the time to be TV show-Klink. Please, I pleaded silently. Go back to being cool, smart, in-control, nice guy Klink. No such luck. Klink moved to one of his bookshelves and after a moment's search pulled out an old volume. He brought it over, flipping it open. I wanted to sink away into the floor. It was a German-language edition of H. G. Well's "The Time Machine." Complete with the future people, the Eloi.

Hochstetter's face turned a new shade and his eyes narrowed. Evil, evil, evil. It was right there radiating out as he turned to fix his eyes on me.

"Tomorrow at 2100," he said, low. I glanced at the clock. Mimi/Tuttle had exited out, again, on schedule. The clock stood at five minutes before nine. 2055, in military time. "The message was intercepted last night. That means—" He broke the unblinking death-stare at me to check his watch. "—about _now_." One hand went down to rest on the handle of his pistol.

"Do you want to know what the other message said?" Hochstetter asked me smarmily. I just raised my eyebrows in a questioning way, not sure I could get words out just then. "It said that in all the records my agents searched, there is not a trace of a _Frau Wilhelmina Brosch_. You, madam, do not exist."

Crap.

Linda was the actress. But I knew darned well she hadn't been able to understand more than two words that had gone by in this conversation. She couldn't bail me out.

"Neither does this French cousin, or your maid," Hochstetter added, his eyes now starting to burn as he stared at me. "You. Are. Eloi. Time Travelers."

I may not be an actress, but I'm also not a coward. When the situation calls for it, I will do what needs to be done without hesitation, and I'll save the fear for later. I've had some adventures in my life, but I'll save those tales for some other time. Literally.

I straightened to an almost military posture. With the high heels, this brought me eye-to-eye with Hochstetter. Slowly, I smiled.

"Bravo, Herr Major," I said. Then I switched to English, not the stilted German-accented English I'd used in front of Hochstetter before, but my own naturally flat American English. "It has been an honor to observe your brilliance here and now." I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. I saw Linda's eyes widen briefly, then narrow in understanding. I also saw Klink gulp his drink and grab for the bottle to pour more.

Clutching Hochstetter's arm, Linda/Cosette snuggled up to him (barf!) and with her eyes glittering with honest admiration (double-barf!) and said, "_Hail victory,_ my leader." She also dropped the French accent, but added, probably to be sure Hochstetter understood, "_Sieg Heil,_ my Fuehrer."

The adoration oozing from her voice and stance were starting to work on Hochstetter. His chest puffed out a bit.

"Was ist…?" Hochstetter began, but faltered.

With a broad smile (okay, I was genuinely amused at how easily Hochstetter bought the B.S.), I raised my hand in that Nazi salute (Klink took a quick half-step away from me), and said, "It has been a privilege to see you in person. We—all of us in the American Reich in the future—study and admire you."

"What…?" Hochstetter inserted more weakly.

"You," Linda put in, "The first Fuehrer of the Americas, then the second Fuehrer of the entire Thousand Year Reich!"

Sold. Stamp that deal done. Hochstetter's eyes went distant as he saw himself in his, and the Nazis', glorious future.

Klink looked a little repulsed, I was pleased to see. I briefly considered giving him an important role in this fake future Linda and I were spinning (Thank you, Samantha Pepper, whoever you are!), but decided I didn't want to find out which way Klink really leaned. Was he the man of honor I suspected? Or the egotistical cringer who'd go whichever way the wind blew? I guess I'd rather cling to my current view of Klink.

I glanced again at the clock. 2158. Tuttle must be in place.

The door to Klink's quarters opened. One of Hochstetter's goons poked his head in, announcing they were ready to move the prisoner.

I perked up. "The prisoner? This other time traveler you have?" I asked Hochstetter. I think I may have switched back to German, after hearing the guard. I'm not sure. It's easy to tangle them when you go back and forth like that. I think it was Linda's slight look of miscomprehension that cued my. "May we see this man, my glorious… Herr Major?" I corrected myself pointedly. He puffed out a bit again. "We suspect he is from the future resistance, but are not sure." From what Hogan had told us, this Byakugan had told Hochstetter nothing but the truth about the real future. To sell our version of the future, he had to be totally discredited.

"Ja, ja," Hochstetter shook himself back to reality (or some semblance thereof). "Come," he said, taking Linda proudly by the arm, he marched toward the door with a hint of a goosestep in his walk. Jackass. Seeing himself on parade before his cheering subjects, I'd bet.

I followed. Klink trailed behind, pointedly not taking my arm. Oh, well. So much for that romance. The scientists, who may or may not have followed the mostly English explanations of the future, came in a clump behind. But was one missing?

We stepped out onto the porch, then down, around the corner so we could see into the compound to where a truck waited near the Cooler. Hochstetter left us to enter the Cooler building with several of his goons.

On the tick. 2100. German methodical efficiency and Hogan exploiting it.

* * *

**Byakugan:**

Hochstetter came in looking sour but brightened evilly at the sight of me. "We're leaving, I hope you hadn't made plans." He said grinning darkly. He was happy about something, and whatever it was, that was NOT good. Hochstetter made a gesture to the three guards he had entered with and they quickly moved to the cage door which they unlocked and entered surrounding me.

Holding their rifles at an upward angle with the nozzles pointed at my skull they led me out of the cage and we started out of the cooler; a guard behind me, a guard on both sides and Hochstetter directly in front of me, just out of arms' reach. Bugger.

We were walking forward when all of a sudden there was a set of explosions around me and I fell from the circle of guards into the end of a tunnel. The last thing I saw before the door closed was a spinning firecracker like device shooting into the sky and spreading a small column of Akari'enmu. The traps doors quickly shut before the smoke could clear or any of the guards could find the hole. I suspect there was much more going on beyond simply my equipment being used in my breakout but I never did get the chance to ask as I was hauled off down the tunnel.

"Time to face the fire, huh, Newkirk?" I said recognizing one of the complaining voices.

"Shut it, kid," was the reply. Interesting time, inter-est-ing times.


	56. Combined, Operation Tardis

**Operation: TARDIS**

**Niente Zero, Cat, Jake, and Hexiva**

**Niente Zero:**

So. I had come very close to achieving my whacky little side quest in London, and hesitated at the last minute. I failed. I mean, overall I think I was relieved at my decision but it was still a waste of time and had, I had to admit, the side effect of accidentally making me look like a suspicious person thanks to my attempts to wander the blasted heath. Hamstead blasted Heath, well guarded center of aerial defense operations, that is. I felt very embarrassed about that as I rode the bus back to the center of London, then to the neighbourhood Cat and I were staying in. How was I going to explain it to her? Cat had been - well, nice, nice as in protective- when we were being verbally assailed by our questioners on the night of our arrival. Um. Verbally assailed as in, I was shitscared, and she wasn't. She was angry at the time, I think. I know I hadn't been as tough as I'd like, but she'd stepped up and done what had to be done. So I owed her, big time.

And now I appeared to have royally screwed us. Possibly. Or possibly it was nothing. Yes, that was it. I was overthinking things as usual, finding a reason to be mad at myself. Right? Well, maybe. We'd see.

The people on the bus with me looked - there's no good way to say it - defeated. You can read about blitz spirit, and I'm not saying that there wasn't courage and fortitude to spare, but the thing about riding the bus, anywhere, any time in history, is that you don't have to keep a front up, pay attention, know where you're going. You can get on, sit down, let your mind drift and still end up where you need to be. And it's one of those public private spaces, where people leave you be and don't intrude, even though your guard is right down. So here they were, young and old, more old because a lot of the youngsters had already been evacuated, and me about the only one of a healthy working age, because it was the middle of the day and anyone left in London, which was not many of the men, more women, had plenty to be doing. And I could feel the eyes on me occasionally, not making contact, for heavens sakes, we're British, right? But nonetheless here's me fat and sassy, you can't hide that I haven't been on starvation rations. I was too preoccupied on the way to Hamstead but I notice it now, all right. Way to make me feel even guiltier. Can't have screwed this one up, because the War Effort needs us, too. I hoped Cat was making less of a hash of things than I might have.

Arriving back at the flat I waited for Cat's shift to be over. I was eager to find out if she'd heard from Hogan. Home. I so much wanted to go home. I bet we all did.

* * *

**Cat:**

**  
**After Olsen relieved me of radio duty I decided to walk home to at least clear my head. How could I have been so stupid? I've made myself out to be a total arrogant airhead, insulted Hogan and probably set Anglo-American relations back by some hundred years. But, at least he found a way of sending us back to 2008! "_Check Gringotts for note from Eloi. Beam up set for tomorrow 2100." _Thank god, I'm teamed with someone with commonsense: Niente. She'll help figure out the message. After a quick stop at an off-license shop, I finally arrived "home."

"Ich bin müde." I cried as I came in the door kicking off my shoes. I also caught the look on Niente's face. "Sorry, I've been thinking in German ever since we've come to England. Go figure. Frau Monk, my high school German teacher, would've loved to see this day."

I picked up my shoes and took them into the bedroom. "So how was your day?" I shouted from the bedroom simply bursting to tell my news. Color me surprised when she told me she actually went to see her grandmother. I had to come out to face her: "Whoa, no! You actually did it? What happened, what was she like?"

I knew she was interested in telling her grandmother something about her grandfather but never knew she'd have the nerve to go out and try and tell her! Me, I'm hoping never to meet my father. He liked talking with anyone (especially females) and was known as a charmer: it would be too much of an ewwwww moment I think. Hopefully, he was in Ireland or would he be in England now? That's the problem with military intelligence, never enough information!

After telling me she chickened out, I calmed down. I'm trying to minimize any damage time traveling has done/will do to my life, and she almost takes herself out! It's then I tell her our news: Colonel Hogan has found a way to get us home! We had to go to the Bank of England to pick up a note and we'll be going home at uh…9: 00 p.m.? I think. What else could beam up mean? Most every off-ship episode of Star Trek ended with them beaming back home to the ship. But, what in the world it had to do with Saint Eloi? I had no clue. I mean, I know Eloi was King Dagobert's prime minister or something and King Dagobert was the last of France's "Do Nothing" kings, but how would that affect us? (I learned this fact from a set of books of nursery rhymes around the world my parents bought us. They would have the rhymes in the original language; then English and with a bit of historical information. I loved those books, especially those bits of trivia. A broad variety of reading always helps in these situations.) Maybe the note would tell us. Who knows, maybe after the Bank of England we'd have to go to Westminster Abbey. I know several kings had been buried there…

"I think we both need a drink!"

I showed her the bottle of wine, which the clerk told me was a fair white sweet wine. Hopefully, he was telling the truth. All I could tell was it was white and cheap. We decided to put it in the icebox (yeah, a real ice box, no refrigerator for us!) until dinner and drink it then.

* * *

**Niente Zero:**

**  
**Wine. Wine was genius. Freaking genius. I mean, I didn't need to get smashed or anything, and sweet white wine made me think back to drinking when I was at Uni, out in the world for the first time on my own, my flatmate with the abiding affection for Asti Spumante and cheap spaghetti dinners. Um. Well, this time I wouldn't drink enough to get hungover. Just enough to take the edge off being stranded out of time in World War II London.

I took it upon myself to make dinner. A sort of corned beef hash, light on the beef, heavy on the vegetables. I doubted it would be particularly to Cat's taste, but we were making do. There was bread, and jam (and I would NOT tell Cat that it was probably made of carrots, food colouring, and sawdust to mimic the raspberry seeds. If she already knew that then it was her own problem, otherwise maybe she wouldn't notice) and powdered eggs, a bit of powdered milk, so I made a slightly terrifying bread pudding for dessert. Hey, comfort food. What are you going to do? I'd need something to soak up the wine.

It was nice to sit and relax with Cat. I liked her. She seemed to have a lot of verve, and she seemed to have a knack for getting along with people. Or at least with me. I'm pretty solitary, shy, find it difficult to connect. So it helps if someone around is extraverted.

"So you studied German in school?" it was an easy subject to start chatting about. Everyone has school days to remember. "Me too. Just two years. Man, I sucked. All I remember is laughing hysterically at the word for cornflakes. Oh, and something about Mütti and Vatti not wanting little Liesel to go to the discotheque." Um. I'd hardly had any wine and I was already babbling. But Cat joined in, and soon we were chatting like old friends about our impressions of Germany, how much I'd loved my history teacher who taught a lot about the Americans in World War II.

* * *

**Cat:**

Looking back, I think the wine may have been a wrong idea. We were both overtired, and under a great deal of strain; I think the wine worked a little faster and stronger than intended. But I wouldn't trade the camaraderie it helped create for anything.

During dinner we were fine with our glass of wine. It was after dinner we became more relaxed and laughing at practically everything. I was washing up since Niente had cooked; we just got to chatting.

"Well, part of my German was learned in school, but I lived in Germany with my family for a few years. My high school German teacher used to have fits over my accent. Since we lived in Bavaria, my accent was heavily Bayrisch, with a bit of Schwabisch and Upper Saxon from my father helping us with German homework and the usual school Hoch Deutsch. But, what really got her was the French accent that occasionally crept in. Don't ask me where that came from!"

I think it was when we had started trading ideas for fan fiction we would be writing when we got back home that we heard the knock at the door. One of us had just mentioned how Colonel Hogan was very different from what we usually wrote and the show. It had gone from there to very silly, and frankly, stupid ideas about what we would have him do after the war. Both of us trying to top the other in the most stupid job for him.

"No, after the war I'll have Hogan go to Berchesgarten and be the man who has to pick up all the flower pots that fall into the ponds there. We used to drop quite a few into them when we visited there as kids. Can you imagine the great Hogan as a lowly gardener?"

Niente countered with the suggestion that Colonel Hogan would make a first class used-car salesman, with his uncanny charm and knack for spinning a good yarn. "I think I'd even believe that an old beater had one careful owner who only used it to drive to church on Sundays if he twinkled that twinkle at me." she slurred slightly.

"How about have Hogan be towel boy at the cabana?"

We were giggling and laughing so much we didn't hear the knocking at first, and then finally we saw Sarah at the door. "I've been knocking for a while."

"Strange, we didn't hear you." I motioned to the almost empty bottle with my glass, "Care for some Wein, I mean wine?" Oops, yes I did use the German v sound for the w.

With a look of disgust plainly on her face, "I just wanted to tell you that your rotation has been changed. Ms. Nenty you are to go in early tomorrow at 6 a.m. and then Sergeant Olsen will go on at noon until 6 p.m. Ms. Ballou will then go on at 6 p.m. until Midnight." She handed us some papers, "Here's the schedules."

After she left, we both began giggling, "You think she says shool for school besides shedule."

Niente blew a raspberry at that. "Just what's wrong with SCHedule? Do I need to SCHedule you an ARSE kicking?" She seemed inordinately pleased at her own joke.

Laughing and not thinking anything of the schedule change, I suggested that I could meet Niente at noon for lunch so we could stop by the Bank of England for our note then do some shopping and visit a store I've been dying to see ever since I came to London: Woolworths.

If things went as planned, I wouldn't even have to take my rotation. I'd be going home!

* * *

**Jake:**

When I next woke, feeling almost human, I found a note instructing me to report to Colonel Hogan.

Tiger was there when I was let into the office, and the map compartment was open, showing the map I had drawn. Upon being invited to sit, I took a seat next to Tiger on the lower bunk.

"How long were you in the military?" the colonel wanted to know.

"Six years in the Air Force," I told him.

"Which war?"

It was clear that someone had given him a bit of "future history." "None," I answered. "The Viet Nam War had been over for six or eight years before I enlisted, and I was discharged a couple of years before things started seriously heating up in the Middle East."

"And what sort of training did you have?"

I ran down the list, which was actually quite diverse for a six-year hitch: aircraft mechanic, cargo handler, weather observer, and medical lab tech. There's a long story behind that list, which would take a whole chapter all by itself; the brief explanation of administrative SNAFUs and rapid promotions in fields that were top-heavy satisfied him. Then, pilot to the core, he wanted to know what aircraft I worked on.

"Just one; the C-141 Starlifter. It's a four-engine cargo carrier."

His eyes were alight now, and he wanted to know all about it.

"I'm afraid all I can tell you is that it was a jet, like most aircraft in my time. An 'aircraft maintenance specialist'--that's the official title--is really just a glorified gas-station attendant. We did refueling and our own pre- and postflight inspections; if we found any discrepancies, it was referred to specialists."

The mental tug with which he pulled himself back to the present was actually visible, albeit subtle. "So where did you learn to write reports like that?" he wanted to know.

Ah, so that was what had precipitated this line of questioning. "I read a lot of military adventure and espionage novels." Tom Clancy, John Ringo, Vince Flynn, Brad Thor...the names would have been meaningless to him.

"Well, now you get to put all that reading into practice. I'm sending you back out with the Underground; you'll be doing some diversionary sabotage. Tiger will give you the details as necessary.

"Just one more thing: Have you ever heard of someone called Byakugan?"

"No; who is she?"

"This one's a 'he,' and yes, he's another time-traveler. He showed up here _with_ the device."

"He brought it with him?" I blurted in shock. _"How?!"_

"I don't have the slightest idea; he was going on about magic."

"Ah. So he either used an insulator or has really good shields."

He stared at me. "Don't tell me you _believe_ in that claptrap?"

I waggled a hand. "Some of it, yes. I'm pretty well-versed in a lot more than I actually believe in. Research for a story I wrote once."

"Was Japanese magic included in that research of yours?"

"No; that's _'way_ outside my field."

"The problem here is that the Gestapo have both him and the device. What was that about an insulator?"

"Some fabrics are believed to insulate against magic the same way rubber or ceramic does against electricity. Silk is one of them. The others--haven't been invented yet, and they're only partial insulators, anyway."

"And shields?"

"It's something done in the mind, by mental imagery in the ways I've researched. Ceremonial magic is a horse of a different color." Surprising how easily I slipped back into the expressions I'd learned from my father.

That thought led me to ponder briefly what he was doing right now. He was 4F; at this point, my grandmother would be lobbying Hap Arnold himself to let him fly a desk--unsuccessfully, I might add.

Hogan was shaking his head as if to clear it. I guess his parents never read Edgar Cayce.

* * *

**Niente Zero:**

**  
**Of course I should have known that Sarah finding us a: in our cups and b: spouting nonsense of a vaguely seditious nature would lead to No Good, please note capital letters. I didn't discover until afterwards that she ran straight to HQ to tattle on us. Loose lips sink ships. Well, I guess our lips were plenty loose at that. Point of fact, though, there was definitely a leak in the information. Whether she told someone she shouldn't about us, or it got back through different channels, we soon had more parties interested in us than we were strictly competent to handle.

Foreshadowing over. So, the next morning. Don't hate me, but I don't get hangovers. Not often, and frankly I have to work pretty hard for one. Drink pretty hard. End up with a liver like a Frenchman. Fortunately, in order to make my shift I was up and at 'em before Cat had a chance to stir from her slumbers, because I don't know how well she'd have taken my, uh, lack of ill-effect. Some people find it maddening. I confess, I find it pretty funny.

I should have been happy that we appeared to be getting out of history and back home, but in spite of the lack of hangover, I am NOT a morning person, and six is an uncivilized time to pull radio duty fercriminysakes. Especially what with a few dirty looks I got which should have tipped me off but frankly I figured I was probably giving a death glare that could stop a truck because 1943? Rations? No, I did not have my requisite four cups of coffee to get going. But did they have to hover over me to give me the dirty looks? I swear, I pushed my chair back hard into someone's legs at least once on purpose. Maybe twice. I don't count good before coffee, either. Well, they asked for it.

The message we'd received had us off to the Bank of London, and I was really happy to meet Cat outside HQ and head over there after the weirdness vibes from our friendly hosts. Finally, we were in cloak and dagger land. That part of the day went rather smoothly, I thought. Apart from Cat having a small spaz over Biedenbender. Sometimes the "Not even trapped in my OWN fandom" thing gets me. I should be spazzing over mobsters. But he did seem ... uh... yes. Compelling. Yeah. Huh, I said I was done with the foreshadowing.

After we got through at the Bank, smooth as silk, all hell broke loose from both sides of the fence. I'm not sure who we should have been more worried about, the good guys, or the bad guys. Both of them were pretty near equally likely to make us dead.

* * *

**Cat:**

We both slept like little babies, very ummm… "happy" little babies who had a lot of wine. The morning may not have been so happy. Lucky for me I got to sleep in, I just hoped that Niente didn't feel the influence too much. My stomach and head were in the worst shape, but fortunately for me, we did have some dill pickles in the house. Although they aren't as good as hot pickled peppers for hangovers, they do seem to help settle my stomach. I think it has something to do with the acid of the pickle juices and the stomach acid. OR maybe it works the same way as if you have a headache, then bang your thumb with a hammer: Poof! headache is all gone.

It was funny, but now I knew I was going home, I was able to enjoy 1943 a bit more. I thoroughly examined everything in the house in spite of Sgt. Forsythe's permanent, lemon-eating, disapproving face. If I was paranoiac I would believe she was following me, watching me.

It was shortly before noon when I finally arrived. Niente was already outside the building waiting for me. Apparently things were a little tense in headquarters. She felt that people were constantly watching her. I shrugged it off, maybe there was some big operation coming up and they were just being overcautious. It was then when we saw him: General Biedenbender. The man who was responsible for Colonel Hogan's capture. Apparently they were bringing him in for interrogation as he was surrounded by guards. He looked much like the TV show, but James Gregory, no matter how good an actor, could ever command such a presence even as a prisoner. Yes, this was definitely a man who could capture the colonel.

"O My God! It's him! Beetlejuice!" All right, another time mouth and mind decided to act independently. My brain knew his name was Biedenbender (even though I used to call him Biedelbender. Ah! Maybe there was the problem!) my mouth kept insisting on saying Beetlejuice. I knew it was wrong, but it was if I couldn't say anything else until I got the name right, so I said it again only louder, "Beetlejuice!"

Niente looked at me and said, "Please don't say it for a third time…"

So what did I do? Yep say it even louder, this time the general heard as he looked over to both of us. A young guard whispered to him and he nodded, even smiling and tipping his hat to both of us. It was a bit old world charm. Charming; really.

Not thinking anything of it, we headed towards the Bank of England to start our mission. Finally, a real mission! It was rather disappointing how smooth the operation went. We arrived at the bank and there the note was waiting for us. All we had to do is follow the instructions. We were about to read the note, when we noticed we had picked up a couple of tails. No, not that kind, but a couple of men who were trying to discreetly follow us. Couple? Actually a couple of couples.

I started to loudly talk about going to Woolworths and we began walking faster. Our tails also began following faster. I'll never understand how two seemingly sane and intelligent women became Lucy and Ethel, but, both of us yelled, "Run!" that and a quick, "Meet at Westminster!"" at the same time and we disappeared into the lunchtime crowds of London. I'm not sure where Niente went, but me, being short, took advantage of the crowds and moved with them. I thought I had lost my men when I made my way into a large department store, but there they were behind me.

Hiding behind aisles and shelves, I made my way into the ladies room. I figured they would probably come in, but any minute's hesitation would buy me some time. I could hide in the stalls, but that would be obvious. There was a small window; I could just climb out of. Looking out of it, I saw I wasn't really up that high, maybe a floor and a half? It looked out to a small alley way. There was also a small ledge I could climb onto and then just shinny down the drainpipe. Yes, I was in a skirt and heels, but "The Monkey" of my childhood had come back! I climbed out and closed the window just in time to hear the guards come into the ladies room. I crawled along the ledge, and had gotten onto the drain pipe and was about halfway down when, suddenly, a bit broke off at a connecting point just under where I was hanging on, so it folded into itself, causing me to fall.

"O Lord, please don't let me die." I thought as I fell and finally hit the only dry dirt patch in that alley. I lay for a second, quickly counted the alphabet on my fingers as I noticed the men briefly looking out the window at me then disappearing. I got up, felt my head where some part of the pipe or what held it on had hit me and figured out that as I did not have any queasiness, or any double vision, I had better get the heck out of there. Locating my glasses which had fallen off, I ran out the alley and up the street to the entrance to the tube. Now to find out where in London was Westminster Abbey.

* * *

**Jake:**

The next few days were--educational. The closest I'd ever come to handling explosives before this was as a cargo handler; now I found myself learning to use them. Contrary to what we saw on TV, where they used the box plungers to trigger explosions, they actually used small hand-held ones, perhaps twice the size of a Bic lighter, which were easily carried in a pocket.

Around the second day of this, we were informed that we had a traitor in the ranks; someone calling herself Samantha Pepper had not only told Hochstetter that Germany _won _the war, but narced out two of the other time-travelers. It took everything I had to get my temper under control at that news. There are only a very few things that will set my blood to boiling, and that's one of them. To this day, I won't go to any movie with Jane Fonda in it if I can help it.

* * *

**Hexiva:**

To my relief, I was not in the car for long. When it arrived at whatever its destination was, one of the Gestapo guards motioned for me to get out of the car. As I stood, I tried to shove certain thoughts out of my head. The fact that I was in the hands of Nazis was at the top of the list. Somewhat below it was the expression on Hochstetter's face when he had been walking towards Linda. Had I just sentenced her to a fate I felt that no-one should have to suffer, least of all someone who, to the best of my knowledge, hadn't committed any crime? Or, at any rate, nothing I would consider a crime. What Hochstetter would consider a crime . . . That was third on the list of things I didn't want to think about.

The Gestapo officer/civilian--Herzer, Hochstetter had called him-- pointed at the building before us, and enunciated, clearly, slowly, and exasperatedly, "_Das Labor_."

I shook my head, puzzled. _Labour? Isn't the German word _Arbeit_? Or is that just work, with another word for labour? What labour is he talking about? _I had an awful feeling in my stomach. _'Arbeit macht frei?' A work camp? _That was one of the things I was trying not to think about. I knew uncomfortably well that I was in the power of the SS, with the same organization who were in charge of making certain that work never made several million innocent people free.

And I was collaborating with them.

I rubbed my forehead and went back to trying not to think about it. It was like not thinking about pink elephants. Except there was nothing even remotely humorous about the thought I was avoiding.

* * *

**Jake:**

When it came to discussing how we were going to get into the lab compound, I was informed that everyone involved agreed with my assessment that a mortar was the best bet. One of the men in the Resistance had managed to acquire one and knew how to operate it. Col. Hogan joined us for a final planning session for what had come to be called Operation: TARDIS, which I guessed had to have come from one of the time-travelers, since no one in _this_ time period would have any clue what a tardis was. The meeting was conducted in German, with Tiger translating for me.

Our first hurdle concerned the wind, which was coming from the east that night and would carry the scent of the mortar-man, who would be positioned over the east side. A distraction was needed, and, as a livestock breeder, I knew the perfect one. "We need a bitch in heat," I said, and several of the people stared at me in utter shock.

Aside from the fact that ladies in that time simply did not say such things, it also occurred to me then that perhaps, with the limited understanding of English of some of them, they thought I was simply cussing. _"Une chienne dans saison,"_ I repeated in French, which brought enlightenment to most.

Colonel Hogan nodded. "That'll distract the dogs good and proper," he agreed. "Kaufmann, fire the mortar at the south end of the fence. That'll be our cue to jump the guards and go right through the main gate. Everyone clear? Good." He looked closely at my hands for a moment, then instructed Tiger to introduce me to the Luger.

It felt awkward at first, with its large grip, but it more than made up for that problem with its decided lack of recoil--little more than a .22, as a matter of fact. I only got to fire one shot in practice, and then we had to book in case the sound drew any unwanted attention, though the area had been carefully checked beforehand.

* * *

**Niente:**

Coming out of the Bank of England I noticed that we had a tail on us. I guess Cat noticed too, because she started talking loudly about how she wanted to go to Woolworths. Department stores, I am lead to understand from my recreational reading, are the perfect place in London to shake any kind of inconvenient followers. That and large, expensive hotels. I think the Ritz only exists for adventurers to lose the police in.

I give Cat credit for being fast on her feet. We both got a lead on our tails and decided to split up. I choose to characterize our actions in that fashion because it sounds way classier than "We panicked and ran off in different directions." I'm not sure if our tails were playing for the home team, playing for the away team, playing Marco Polo, or what. But at least two of them split off after Cat, and mine, well, missed me play the "get in one door of a taxi get out the other door, smile nice at the driver" gig, and I found a big posh 'otel, although not looking so posh in wartime drab, but still, front entrance, smile, act like I live here, up some stairs, along a corridor, down a fire escape, I was bound to have lost my men. Sure I had. Only to run into the arms of Almost Certain Peril. Peril in the form of a man who I was just saying looked awfully compelling. And truly, only the most blushworthy of four letter words sprung fully formed like Athena from Zeus's forehead when I realized that a damn dirty German prisoner, apparently escaped prisoner, had his hands on me, a gun to my head, and a car waiting. I'd been boxed into an ambush. I REALLY hoped Cat was doing better.


	57. Something Dire, Part 1

**Something Dire This Way Comes**

**by GSJessica, Byakugan, Niente Zero, Cat,  
****Hogan (by GSJessica) and Hochstetter (by Hexiva)**

**GSJessica:**

Great show by Hogan and Company 'magically' vanishing Byakugan right in front of the eyes of Hochstetter, his goons, and the entire camp. Flash. Bang. Plume of smoke. And nothing left to show anything had taken place but a scorched patch of dirt.

You know that sort of incoherent growling scream Hochstetter sometimes generated in the TV show? Well, the actor only put about half the volume and intensity into it the real Hochstetter did at this moment. I think there were words somewhere in there, but I couldn't make out what they were over the yelling, alarms blaring, dogs barking, and other commotion, all vigorously enhanced by the prisoners, no doubt on Hogan's orders to add to the confusion.

Klink rushed forward, then stopped and stared. Schultz ran past Linda and I, rifle in one hand, chicken leg in the other. He likewise stopped and stared at the place Byakugan had disappeared from. Neither Klink nor Schultz seemed to want to get to involved with the ready-to-shoot-anybody goons of Hochstetter's.

Linda and I both stared, as well, until we were grabbed by the elbows and pulled backwards with Colonel Hogan hissing in our ears, "Time to go."

Go? I was all for that, but where? Hogan led us rapidly up the steps into Klink's quarters.

Inside was a flurry of activity. Carter, wearing a waiter's outfit, crouched on the floor where Linda last stood by Hochstetter and ignited some powder. A small flash and only a small burnt mark remained on the floor. As we were hustled past, I noticed another black patch of carpet where I had been standing.

Others of Hogan's men—unnamed extras from Barracks Two mostly—moved purposely about the rooms eradicating any trace Linda, Tuttle, or I had ever been there with _Mission: Impossible_-like efficiency. Our coats and hats were gone from the bedroom. Glasses we had used had the lipstick wiped from the rims and were put away in the kitchen. Even a strand of my long, blond hair was picked up by one sharp-eyed fellow and removed. No trace was left we had ever been there. Carter straightened and took up Mimi's serving tray, as though he'd been holding it all along.

One man—Garth, I think his name was—handed Colonel Hogan the crumple of paper Hochstetter had first read, then crushed, the one with the report saying 'Frau Wilhelmina Brosch'—me—didn't exist. Hogan read it, then another if his men materialized a matching piece of paper, but blank. This was crushed into a tight ball and placed on the floor precisely where Hochstetter had dropped the authentic report.

All this action was gathered in a glance as we were hurried through to the kitchen. There was, indeed, a tunnel entrance in Klink's stove, but it was beneath the _kitchen_ stove. Tuttle was squeezing into the tunnel, one hand carefully holding her bundled up apron well away from her. I went down next. Then Linda. Hogan's men followed in short order. The last face to peek in before closing the trap was LeBeau's, remaining behind in the kitchen.

Then came a moment that struck me as the price of living the reality versus watching a television program. The trap closed and we were down in the tunnel, in the cool dark, cut off from the action; from the next scene.

Gosh darn it! I wanted to see what happened when Klink and Hochstetter came back into Klink's quarter. I wanted to hear Hochstetter scream "What is this man doing here?" when he saw Hogan standing there blandly holding a glass of champagne (as he was the last moment I saw him). I wanted to know if Klink hunted from room to room looking for me, calling "Liebchen?" in a plaintive voice. And I wanted to see how every one reacted to our apparently magical disappearances into time.

Not to be. Hogan's auxiliary team spared no moments to enjoy the drama but played their parts with precision. They hurried the three of us through the narrow, low-ceilinged tunnel beneath Klink's quarters, down to a deeper, but also wider and taller, branch tunnel, around corners and intersections, until we were back in the familiar area far below Barrack's Two and Three.

* * *

**Byakugan:**

As we reached the end of the tunnel there was a muffled thump. Looking back behind me I saw that the space we had just traversed had been filled in by a rather impressive amount of dirt and loose rock. Impressive.

"Impressive." I said aloud. Getting no reaction from the group hustling me along I spoke again. "So what did you use to back fill the tunnel? Minor explosives? Sealed dirt? Engineered cave in?" The man behind me tried to reply, but was smacked in the back of the head for his troubles.

Finally Newkirk replied as we reached a large door in the lower tunnel system. "Carter reverse engineered those explosive marbles you use and gave them a greater bang. We had them buried in the tunnel walls and ceiling with a trip cord set up at the far end of the tunnel to set them off." Opening the door I was escorted inside and placed on a bench to await Hogan. "James, Edward. Stay here and make sure this one doesn't leave the room. If he tries anything funny feel free to stop him. Thomas, Matt. Go round up the other travelers and see if any of them recognize the miscreant." He then walked off down another tunnel and disappeared, apparently intent on whatever task Hogan had set for him. Whatever.

Getting up from the bench I started stretching. My guards tensed briefly at this but quickly decided that as I wasn't hurting anyone but myself it was best to leave me to it. Getting back up I unbuttoned the top half of my grey German jumpsuit and tied the arms around my waist. Another tense moment I'm sad to say. Thinking back on my limited knowledge of POW camps I guess it was a good idea I had my black turtle neck on underneath. Wouldn't people getting the wrong idea, the don't ask don't tell policy was enforced a little… stricter… back in the 40's despite its tendency to be useful at all levels of the military. Sigh.

Of course, I suppose my long hair didn't help me any in that area. On the other side of the room there was a desk with a large complicated mechanical mess that I assumed was the radio. It looked similar to the radio from the show at least. I walked over to the table, my two guards coming in close to make sure I didn't destroy anything. Looking over the assorted pieces of junk tools and radio covering the walls and desk I tried to reach forward and pick up a thick unattached metal wire. Tried as in was unsuccessful. The guard closest to my arm abruptly placed a pistol to my head and I froze.

"I just want that wire," I said slowly, not moving. The guard looked at me, looked at his friend, and nodded. The second guard picked up the wire and they both escorted me back to the bench.

"Sit," the first ordered handing me the wire. "Stay," the other added.

"Woof," I said dryly. Sneering, my two guards took back their positions standing on either side of the bench. I sighed and raised the wire in front of me. Time to see if those two wasted weeks did anything for me. Raising the wire in front of me I flicked the upright end of it and said "_Sanus_" and held the wire near my ear. The noises in that direction suddenly became a small bit clearer. Dimmit. At least I have something back. "_Augeo_" the noises came into sharper focus but it was still pretty useless.

"What are you doing, kid?" one of the guards said his mouth MUCH too close to the wire.

"OUCH!" I said pulling the wire quickly away from my ear. "Trying to listen in on people here, and again, OW! Why'd you have to speak right next to the wire?"

Weird looks abounded. Sighing, I placed the wire in the folds of my jumpsuit and waited for the others to enter.

As it turned out I wouldn't be allowed to recover from my earache. Why? My sister entered the room some moments later.

She took one look around the room, spotted me, and pelted straight for me. She grabbed me in a bear hug, trying, and failing, to lift me off the bench squealing like a teapot the entire time. As my sister sat down beside me going into babble mode I looked at the door where the others were gathered. Two women had come in just behind a rather disgruntled looking Newkirk. What was wrong now?

* * *

**Hogan:**

"What is this man doing here?" Hochstetter screamed as he stormed back into Klink's quarters and saw Hogan. Hochstetter was trailed by a bemused Klink and baffled-looking Schultz. The time scientists—still holding their drinks—wore an array of puzzled expressions, but mostly kept quiet.

"I was invited, Major," Hogan said. "Don't you remember?"

Hochstetter jabbed a finger at him and stepped in threateningly close. Hogan peered down at him with the mild expression that always drove Hochstetter mad. "You! You had something to do with my prisoner disappearing!"

Raising his eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of confusion, Hogan asked, "What prisoner?" Klink's attention snapped to Hogan.

"The crazy boy," Hochstetter screeched. "The magician from the future. Byakugan."

Hogan altered his expression to add patronizing sympathy to the confusion, much like the kind of expression one might aim at a lunatic raving to himself in a public place. He silently mouthed, "Buy – a – koo – gun?" Hochstetter's face turned red. "Sorry, Major," Hogan said coolly, "I don't know what you're talking about." Klink nodded along rapidly.

Spinning, Hochstetter demanded, "And where are the women? Mademoiselle Cosette, and Frau Brosch?" His glare landed on Klink, who automatically snapped to attention, heels clicking.

"What women?" Klink answered without even a split second of hesitation. Hogan was hard-pressed to hide a grin. Whatever the Kommandant's inner motivations, he was always ready to seize an opportunity to make Hochstetter and the problems he brought vanish as easily as possible. All other questions of ideology and loyalties aside, this was one common enemy Klink and Hogan unequivocally shared.

Hochstetter appeared on the verge of a coronary. Pointing, he yelled, "They were right…" Then he froze as he saw the scorch marks on the floor. "…there," he ended limply, sinking down into a chair.

"Oh, dear," Klink said. "Someone must have dropped a cigar on the carpet."

"I'll have my men clean that in the morning," Hogan put in seriously.

"Schultz," Hochstetter said, in a dangerously low voice, "you brought the women from town. Did you see where they went?"

"I'm sorry, Herr Major," Schultz told him with solemn innocence, "but I haven't left the camp all day and I saw nothing. Noooothing." That was going to cost Hogan a few money-lined candy bars, but well worth the price, he thought.

On cue, Carter entered from the kitchen with a tray of drinks. "Another drink, Major?" he asked. "I mixed this one just like the last one," he added, pointing.

Taking in his waiter's outfit, Hochstetter snarled, shuddering with repressed fury, "Where did you come from?"

With all doe-eyed innocence, Carter answered chattily, "Well, originally from North Dakota, though after I graduated from high school…"

He was cut off by Hochstetter's incoherent scream. Turning, Carter held the tray out to Klink, who said blandly, "Thank you, Sergeant, I will have another." Klink sounded perfectly calm to Hogan, yet he downed that drink in a gulp and immediately grabbed another like a lifeline.

"Well, gentlemen," Hogan said, settling his cap on his head, "it's been a pleasant evening. Thanks for the invitation to your little party."

"Thank you for joining us, Colonel," Klink said, reaching to snag another drink from Carter's tray. "It was a most enjoyable evening, wasn't it?"

* * *

**GSJessica:**

Sitting there, side by side on a bench were IronAmerica, and the young fellow I presumed was her brother, the infamous Byakugan. Two of Hogan's men flanked them with that MP look about them, apparently under orders to keep the two siblings in place and quiet. Though Colonel Hogan's blood pressure clearly went up a couple points every time he talked about him, Byakugan actually looked like quite a pleasant fellow. Little IronAmerica looked somewhat the worse for wear since I'd last seen her. Poor girl, being kept down here in these grubby tunnels. Of course, Byakugan looked a lot worse than she did, undoubtedly thanks to Hochstetter.

"I was supposed to get a glove from Hochstetter," Linda protested at one point.

"It's being taken care of, ma'am," one of the men told her. "The Colonel sent another team into the Cooler a few minutes ago, when the goons came out with him." He gestured to Byakugan, apparently unwilling to try to pronounce his name.

"Here they come now," Kinchloe said, peering down another tunnel branch. Three men came to the radio room area carrying bundles of clothing, and some small pouches and vials. One carried an elaborate leather glove.

"All trace anyone was ever held in that cell is gone," one man reported. Kinchloe nodded an acknowledgment of the report.

A small argument broke out between Byakugan and the men over the bundles of clothing. It was settled by Sergeant Kinchloe, who decreed Byakugan could have his clothing back, but not the pouches nor the glove.

As Byakugan disappeared around a bend in the tunnel to change out of that gray German jumpsuit (I didn't blame him), along with a guard, I noticed Tuttle was still standing stock still in the middle of the space, holding her bundled apron out at arm's length. She looked, if I was not mistaken, rather pale and shaken. Was she okay? Had something gone wrong with her part of the mission?

Kinchloe noticed, too. "Miss Tuttle," he said gently. "Is that the device from Klink's safe."

Tuttle nodded rapidly. Kinchloe stepped around the radio and reached to take the bundle from her.

"Don't touch it!" Tuttle shrilled. Linda and I gave each other a startled glance. What was wrong with her?

Calmly, Kinchloe pointed to the maps' table, saying, "Put it down here."

Tuttle set the bundle down on the table like it was nitroglycerin about to explode, then stepped back with a relieved sigh. Kinchloe carefully used a ruler to move the apron fabric aside, revealing two golden objects.

* * *

**Hochstetter:**

It was a very quiet evening. Quiet, peaceful, apparently nothing that needed doing, no-one grinning impudently and making smart comments, no-one giving befuddling but fascinating views of the future . . .

Hochstetter had an urge to smash something. Or, preferably, someone. How could it have happened? He knew the three time travelers—Byakugan, Cosette, Frau Brosch— had been there. He had _seen _them. And now all of them where gone, leaving nothing but some smoke and burned carpet.

Hochstetter couldn't think why Klink, Schultz and Hogan wouldn't admit to having seen the women. He knew he wasn't simply going insane—although he hadn't been too sure of that before he spoke to Rehle and some of the guards and scientists. Rehle had seen Byakugan appear, and the guards had all glimpsed him. Why wouldn't those three admit to it?

_Why am I not sure enough myself to have them all thrown in a cell? Four people cannot just vanish into thin air! _Hochstetter shook his head, and then froze in mid-gesture. _Four! _There had been four, hadn't there? Only _three _had disappeared. He still had Pepper. Whatever else she might be, she was the only time traveler currently to be found.

He stood, grabbing his coat. He had to get to the lab

* * *

**GSJessica:**

Colonel Hogan finally arrived in the tunnels as we were gathered around, speculating about the two time travel devices, one of which, Kinchloe told us, had to be the fake put in the safe by the Gestapo as bait. The other, however, arrived in camp with Hochstetter and Byakugan. It could be our ticket home.

Or the portal to an even greater nightmare.

We didn't know how the thing was set. Would touching it bring us back to Washington, D. C. in 2008? Or send us who-knew-when-and-where?

Hogan had apparently worked out this dilemma, too. After receiving reports from, and dismissing, all the other men, there remained in the radio room only Hogan, Kinchloe and us—the time travelers. Me, Linda, Tuttle, IronAmerica, and Byakugan. Then Jake was included, arriving from the Emergency Tunnel, she gave Hogan crisp report just like she was an integrated member of the Hogan's Heroes team. She was ready to raid the time lab, and Hogan was ready to let her lead the raid. How cool was that? For the first time one our own out-of-time people gave me a bit of a "squee!" moment.

So, we turned back to the time devices, studying them while Hogan explained that the strange "Mary Sue" song message had been the most important clue in how to deal with our problem. It proved there was a way to send a message, not a person, back in time. That would confirm the device was sent to take us home.

We stirred uncomfortably. I wasn't seeing a whole lot of volunteers to try out this theory. IronAmerica asked the key question straight out: What if it actually sent us back another sixty-five years in time instead?

"Then a delayed message could be sent forward in time," Hogan explained. "A letter could be deposited in the Bank of London—it's been around forever—and Cat and Niente will receive it."

"Gringotts," I said, that part of the cryptic intercepted message becoming clear. The Harry Potter wizards' bank meant for them to check the Bank of London tonight after the 'beam up' at 2100. Yeah, yeah, never mind that message should have been there for them to get all along. We were, of course, guessing how all this time stuff with its Schrödinger's Cats uncertainties would work.

"Every man in camp is on alert, in the tunnels, in the barracks, and above to keep an eye out for a message to appear, like that song message appeared," Hogan went on. He pulled on Byakugan's leather glove as he spoke, reaching out tentatively to touch one of the devices. Nothing happened. "Every other appearance has been in, or near, Stalag 13. When the message from 2008 arrives, we should find it. Otherwise, we should be hearing from Cat and Niente via radio from London a few minutes later about their message received."

* * *

**Niente Zero:**

I give Cat credit for being fast on her feet. We both got a lead on our tails and decided to split up. I choose to characterize our actions in that fashion because it sounds way classier than "We panicked and ran off in different directions." I'm not sure if our tails were playing for the home team, playing for the away team, playing Marco Polo, or what. But at least two of them split off after Cat, and mine, well, missed me play the "get in one door of a taxi get out the other door, smile nice at the driver" gig, and I found a big posh 'otel, although not looking so posh in wartime drab, but still, front entrance, smile, act like I live here, up some stairs, along a corridor, down a fire escape, I was bound to have lost my men. Sure I had. Only to run into the arms of Almost Certain Peril. Peril in the form of a man who I was just saying looked awfully compelling. And truly, only the most blush-worthy of four letter words sprung fully formed like Athena from Zeus's forehead when I realized that a damn dirty German prisoner, apparently escaped prisoner, had his hands on me, a gun to my head, and a car waiting. I'd been boxed into an ambush. I REALLY hoped Cat was doing better.

* * *

**Cat:**

Tube ride was really very ordinary, except I was worried that anytime my tails would be following me. Nope. I had lost them. I exited out of the station at Piccadilly Circus figuring I could lose anyone in the crowd. Well, almost anyone because there in front of me was Sergeant Olsen looking madder than, oh I don't really know, because I don't think I've ever seen anyone so mad as he was. He came right up to me and grabbed my arm. "Well, Liebchen," making the word sound like the worst thing in the world to be called. "Just what do you and Seine Freundin think you were doing?" he hissed.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

Newkirk, covered in dirt, arrived in the radio room. "It's all backfilled, Colonel," he reported. "Those bloody Krauts can dig from now to doomsday and won't find anything but dirt."

"Good, Newkirk. Thank you," Hogan answered distractedly. He poked a gloved finger at the other golden device. Nothing happened.

Squeezing past us, Newkirk bumped against Byakugan. He patted Byakugan in a chummy way as he passed. "Blimey, you're looking better in your own clothes, mate," Newkirk said. I caught a hint of a nod from Newkirk to Hogan as he continued past.

Hogan reached to pick up one of the golden objects, studying the markings. I looked more closely. They appeared identical, except the other one had an etched swastika on it. Hogan picked up the one with the swastika with his glove-covered right hand, hefting it and feeling it like a baseball.

In a bored, or just plain tired, voice, Byakugan started to say something about the markings and settings, when Tuttle apparently got up the gumption to say what was bothering her.

"Colonel," she cut in. Byakugan paused in what he was saying. Tuttle went on, "I may have already sent someone back… or forward… through time." Miserably, she said, "I threw the time gadgets at one of the scientists. He disappeared."

Hogan blinked once.

"Like this?" he said, and threw the swastika-engraved device straight at Byakugan.

Good reflexes. Whether to catch, or deflect, the device hurtling toward him, I couldn't tell. But in a flash, Byakugan was gone.


	58. Something Dire, Part 2

**Something Dire, Part 2**

**by Cat, Niente Zero, GSJessica, Tuttle4077, IronAmerica, Byakugan**

**Byakugan:**

What was wrong now? Half a second later I got my answer.

"Here they come now," a slightly higher voice said. Opening my eyes I saw three men enter the radio room area carrying bundles of clothing, and some small pouches and vials. One carried an elaborate leather glove.

"All trace anyone was ever held in that cell is gone," one man reported. Kinchloe nodded an acknowledgment of the report.

I stood up and with one of the guards at my back walked over to the three men. "Thanks for getting my stuff" I murmured holding my hands out for the bundles. The men were not fourth coming. "We are leaving your base soon the same way we came, You _will_ return my gear."

"We have no such orders, Jap lover. Hogan doesn't trust you and neither do we. This stuff is dangerous and we are NOT handing it over to a traitor." The one holding most of my gear sneered.

My eyes widened for a second and then narrowed sharply. Growling deep in my throat I started to shift into a more aggressive stance. Luckily, Kinch chose that moment to enter the argument. "Enough, you idiots. We don't have time for childishness. You," he said pointing at the man holding most of my cloths. "Give the kid his clothes and lead him to one of the side rooms. Kid, you aren't getting your gear until we send you back. Get over it. Go. And whatever you're doing with your eyes, stop it."

_My eyes? Huh? _I gave Kinch an odd look and left with the rest of my clothes. I walked with a decidedly nervous guard to a room just off of the radio station and closed the door. I quickly stripped off the jump suit and put on my black cargo pants, leather duster, and hitate. If I was going to use the key to take us home, I may as well do it in style.

I came back into the room with my guard and was directed back to the bench to await Hogan's arrival. There were two golden items on the table across the room. _The watches? Wait… watches plural? That might explain the malfunction. Theoretically all objects are supposed to have trouble existing in the same time as each other, but why would there still be two in 2008?_

As I was pondering this conundrum Colonel Hogan finally arrived. After a short conversation with all of his men everyone but the main cast left the room. _Odd,_ I thought. The others gathered around Hogan and started discussing the watches. They were getting nowhere fast when another older woman walked in. She gave him a fast and quiet report and then went to my left and started talking very quickly with one of Hogan's men. _Interesting. Former military? Hmm…_

I quickly lost interest in watching her as Hogan began speaking. He explained that the strange "Mary Sue" song message had been an important clue in how to deal with our problem. It proved there was a way to send a message, not a person, back in time. That would confirm the device was sent to take us home. _No dip Sherlock, you could have figured that out from listening to my talks with Herzer_.

Squeezing past the crowd of women, Newkirk bumped against me. He patted my jacket in a chummy way as he passed and I gave him an odd look. Hadn't he just been glaring at me? "Blimey, you're looking better in your own clothes, mate," Newkirk said. Watching him oddly and searching my pockets, he continued past.

Hogan reached to pick up one of the golden objects, studying the markings. I looked more closely. They appeared identical, except the other one had an etched swastika on it. Hogan picked up the one with the swastika with his glove-covered right hand, hefting it and feeling it like a baseball.

Newkirk aside, I was getting bored. They obviously had no idea how to work the watches so I guess it was up to me. If my conversations with Herzer were correct the controls were in the inside of the watch and the pieces on the top had to be shifted to open it. Unlike the Germans, however, we had a way to touch it without teleporting. "Sir? If I may the markings on the top are a set of keys, much like the locks on my boxes. If you shift them in the proper order the watch will open up like any simple pocket watch. Herzer and I have theorized that the controls are on the inside…" I was about to begin explaining what I thought to be the problem with the watch and why it teleported everyone who touched it unprotected when one of the girls cut across me. Not like it mattered, none of the people in the room were paying any attention to what I was saying.

"Colonel," she said, making me pause, "I may have already sent someone back… or forward… through time." Miserably, she said, "I threw the time gadgets at one of the scientists… He disappeared."

Hogan blinked once.

"Like this?" he said, and threw the swastika-engraved device straight at me. Time slowed down. _What's he playing at? _My arm started raising._ If the watch is one of the originals it'll teleport me back. _The watch was half way to me._ What about the rest of them? _My hand was open in front of the watch. _Surely he doesn't want them to stay here?_ My hand closed around the watch and everything dissolved in to sunlight. _Damn it._

I was floating in a swirl of golden light. Strange; that hadn't happened the last time. Wind, lights, a portal, flash, and then Gestapo… not swirly golden nothingness. My arm was still extended from catching the watch. I pulled it in and looked at the watch in my hand. _I guess… holding it when it's having existence issues makes it behave differently_? I started fiddling with the keys on the top in an attempt to open the watch and the world reformed around me. It was a warm night and I was in the middle of the woods somewhere. _Great. Well, whereever here is it certainly isn't the Washington National Archives_.

I heard a whimpering behind me and spun around to see a shivering form in the moonlight. I kneeled down and looked at him. It was one of the scientists from the lab; he was in a suit and carrying a Champaign glass. "S-s-stay a-away from m-m-me," he said, shivering. His English was horridly slurred. Was that just because he's German or did he drink a lot at the party? _Best not to leave him here._ I sighed. Standing up I pulled the gibbering scientist to his feet and started looking for a way out of the woods. It would be just my luck that we'd end up in Siberia. Thankfully that was not the case. As we stumbled out of the woods and onto a paved road I read, or rather recognized the incoherent babble that was a German road sign. This was the road that came into camp. There was no camp. We had jumped back again. Damn it.

I sighed and pulled the watch out of my pocket where I had stashed it upon finding my newest problem and looked at it. Well, it wasn't teleporting me back in time for touching it again. "Catch," I said, tossing the watch at my fellow traveler. He screamed and held up his arms in a vain attempt to protect himself from the watch. It didn't work. The watch bounced heavily off of his arms, once more on his head and then to the ground.

"Well… it seems the damn thing is safe now. Oh, shut it, you," I said, looking at the whimpering German. "It's not like I hurt you any. Besides, being a scientist sixty-five years ahead of your time has its advantages."

* * *

**GSJessica:**

A squawk broke from IronAmerica as she leapt toward the empty place her brother had just stood.

"Don't worry, kid," Hogan told her as she turned to fix the blackest glare I've ever seen at Hogan. "Your brother is either home safe and sound." He cocked his head. "Or he's your own great-grandfather."

Kinchloe caught her as she threw herself across the table to smack Hogan. I couldn't say I blamed her.

"Wouldn't it be funny if it turned out Byakugan was _your_ grandfather?"

Hogan did not find that amusing.

* * *

**Tuttle:**

I sat with the others, watching Hogan pace. No one said anything. For all we knew, Hogan had just sent Byakugan- some poor dumb kid- to his doom. IronAmerica was positively seething but her anger was misdirected.

I ducked my head and let out a tiny groan. It was, after all, my fault. I had given Hogan the idea in the first place. Okay, maybe he would've done it anyway, but if there was one thing I was learning, guilt made a person stupid. And boy, did I have a lot of guilt at the moment.

Finally, I couldn't take the waiting anymore. I stood, not even earning a little glance from Hogan and the others, and slipped out of the room.

* * *

**IronAmerica:**

As soon as my brother disappeared, I turned my gaze to _Colonel_ Hogan. I'm not sure, but I swear that he stepped back a few feet.

Now that I think about it, I probably did have the right look to make Hogan want to put as much distance between us a possible. I have heard that there is something called a "Hundred Yard Stare", and it will creep people out to no end. I may have tapped into what passed for that for me.

I turned away from the spot where my brother had disappeared, and brushed through my bodyguards and Kinch. I ignored Peter, who was calling after me. All I could think of was a way to kill Hogan, and make it look like an accident.

A very, very painful, Gestapo-induced accident.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

Hours passed. No message from Byakugan from 2008 was found, above or below ground.

Hogan began to pace. I think the rest of us were just in shock. We'd known all along Hogan could and would sacrifice any of us, but to see it in action… Linda was studying him intensely. I'd have loved to discuss what she was thinking, but it wasn't the time. Time… the real time gadget had gone away—with Byakugan or somewhen else—so no matter what, we _had_ to get the one from the lab. And there was the matter of the girl from our time there, Samantha Pepper, whoever she was. And…

"What if Byakugan did go back to 1870-something," I speculated, "look at all the trouble he got into here and now. Without money or help… how could he even get to London?"

"Newkirk slipped money—some gold, too—into his pocket, along with instructions of how to send a message," Hogan said. IronAmerica returned from wherever she'd disappeared to, accompanied by Kinchloe. She glared at Hogan again. I think she might have cried except she was too busy thinking of creative ways to kill Colonel Hogan.

"It's all up to Cat and Niente," Hogan said after another team of searchers for Byakugan's message checked in. Baker, at the radio, earphones on—he and Kinchloe had been at it non-stop for hours—just shook his head. Nothing from Cat and Niente either. There should have been _something_ from them by now? Good heavens, had something else gone wrong?

* * *

**Cat:**

"Well, Liebchen," making the word sound like the worst thing in the world to be called. "Just what do you and Seine Freundin think you were doing?" Olsen hissed.

Not that I had a chance to answer as a large black sedan drove up behind him and while he was talking to me a man in civilian clothes got out and walked toward us. He had a trench coat over one arm and it was pointed towards us. "Both of you will walk calmly to the car and get in. I don't want to use this," he said in heavily accented English. Yep, sure enough there was a gun in his hand. Olsen must have looked like he was making a movement to run, so the gun arm went close to his side, "I'm not unwilling to shoot. It will make my job easier."

Not that it did Olsen much good. I went in first (imagine my surprise at seeing Biedenbender and another man, besides Niente (who was tied up and gagged) in the car already) then Olsen. Or rather as soon as his head was in the car, the man hit him with the gun and then he was pulled in the car and it sped away.

"You've killed him!" I think both Niente and I cried this. Well, I yelled, I think Niente muffled something…I know it was loud.

"No, not yet," replied our gunman. Gee, "our gunman" I never thought I would be able to say that! My very own thug.

Omygodomygodomygod… They would kill him. He was the enemy and they would kill him just as he was lying on the floor of the car…

"Das is nicht Krieg! Das ist Mord! MORD!" well, that got their attention.

"Was wissen Sie über Krieg?" this was calmly asked by Biedenbender.

Um, gulp. "Nichts. Aber ich weiß Mord. UND das ist Mord. MORD!"

He gave both Niente and me a calculated look. Then he slowly smiled as if amused by the exchange. Finally, he said, "Ja. Das ist Mord."

He then rattled off something in German to the man sitting next to him. The man didn't look too happy but he did check to see if Olsen was all right. I mean, he checked his pupils and pulse. Turning back to the general, he said, "Er lebt."

General Biedenbender then translated for us, "He lives. How long he lives will depend on you two. But, we can discuss this after we are on our way to Germany."

He then gave orders for both Olsen and I to be tied and gagged like Niente. Oh Lordy, we weren't going home, but to a nightmare. To make matters worse, one of the men had produced a hypodermic! Not that I'm afraid or anything, I just don't like needles especially when delivered by some mad German and I don't know what's in it.

* * *

**Niente Zero:**

It was my own damn fault I was bound and gagged. Let's just say, those fly moves I learned in the gun defense seminar my self-defense teacher ran didn't... uh... actually work when I tried them out. Well. They would have but I was way too nervous and not hitting nearly hard enough, just enough to get myself tied-up-not-in-the-fun-way. If ONLY I had the magic Mary Sue charm to make my fighting skills, you know, work. The gag? Oh, I'm sure you can imagine. Good thing, though, because when Olsen got hit on the head, I hollered almost as loud as Cat, and when she started speaking competent German and I recognized "War" and "Murder", I was more than ready to freak out in a verbal way on our captors, which would no doubt have not helped things. I kind of wished I'd had my mouth free to bite the hand that stuck a needle in me, though. I prefer to Just Say No to drugs administered by strangers with guns. Oh yeah. Freak out city.


	59. Something Dire, Part 3

**Something Dire, Part 3  
_In This Case... Torture_**

**by IronAmerica, GSJessica**

**IronAmerica:**

Finally, I collapsed in a side tunnel, god-knows-where, and buried my face in my hands. I almost never cry, I just don't seem to be able to, for some reason. When dad left for Iraq the first time, I didn't feel any tears welling up. When he did not come back after his first hitch over there, nada, once again. 'Course, mom did tell us that he was taking another hitch with another group.

"IronAmerica?" Someone touched my shoulder hesitantly; drawing back almost as soon contact was made. Seems my reputation as a spaz was good for something.

I looked around, wiping my eyes hurriedly as I did so. Sergeant Kinchloe was there, rocking back on his heels lightly. "Are you all right, miss?"

Good ol' Kinch. Always looking out for everyone, even in this damn time. I smiled, lip trembling slightly. "I guess." I pleaded silently for him to drop the subject.

"Come on. The colonel's about to send search party's to look for you." I stood up, accepting Kinch's arm, so he could lead me back to the Colonel.

As we started walking back, my mind started going into warp speed, thinking up a proper (sadly non-lethal) punishment. I must have started grinning, because Kinch drew away from me. It had been nice walking with Kinch in a comfortable silence. Sadly, all good things must come to an end.

I looked around, realizing everything was getting somewhat blurry. Looking at my hands, I realized that I had somehow removed my contacts. Seeing as I had no contact solution with me, it was back to my glasses. Phooey.

As I was getting my glasses from my backpack, I caught sight of my brothers' box, and felt my heart clench again. I instantly found myself wishing for a taser, or one of the really cool Zat guns from Stargate SG-1. It would have been perfect. Fry Hogan's brain with electricity, or vaporize him. I grinned maniacally, back still towards Hogan.

Mental pictures of Colonel Hogan being tasered, or being shot three times with a Zat gun pushed aside, I picked up my cell phone.

I turned towards the rest of the group, including my fellow writers, eyes downcast. I started going through my song list, lips quirking up at the corners, imagining the hell this might cause our _beloved_ Colonel Hogan. Note the sarcasm, please.

"Colonel Hogan, have you ever heard how sometimes two people have a song that describes their relationship?" He nods, looking confused.

"Anyways, I think I finally found _our_ song. Do you mind if I sing it?" Not waiting for a reply, I hit the accept button.

"Dearest, darlingest momsie and popsicle." Hogan is looking at me strangely. I continued, changing my voice slightly.

"My dear father." One of the other writers is smirking. Does she realize what I'm setting Hogan up for?

"There's been some confusion over rooming here at Shiz." I think that at some point I started moving towards Hogan.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

Round the bend. Bonkers. Something about trolleys and tracks. All the Newkirk-isms for barking mad passed through my mind in quick succession (along with a couple new ones being muttered live by Newkirk) as IronAmerica started to sing at Hogan. It sounded like a song from a Broadway musical or something. I'd never heard it. I turned to Linda to ask if she knew.

Linda was shaking as though trying very hard to hold back laughter. Okay. The theatre person, must know this song.

"What is this feeling, so sudden and new?" IronAmerica sang. "I felt the moment I laid eyes on you." Hogan cocked his head to the side, a look of amusement on his face. "My pulse is rushing. My head is reeling. My face is flushing."

Linda doubled over, shaking. Hmph! I wondered if she was recalling all the times she'd fictionally tortured Hogan mercilessly and was wishing she'd thought of this (very effective) method.

"What is this feeling fervid as a flame, does it have a name, yeeesss, loathing unadulterated loathing," the girl sang, moving ever forward toward Hogan.

Poor girl's finally gone totally off the beam. But does she have to take us with her?

* * *

**IronAmerica:**

Poor Colonel Hogan looks crestfallen. _NOT_! Peter looks amused.

"For your face." Colonel Hogan is starting to look angry now. I continue singing.

"Your voice." Someone finally starts laughing. Hmm, I'll look into it later.

"Your clothing." Hogan looks at himself, looking confused. Obviously _he_ thinks nothing is wrong with his clothes.

"Let's just say I loathe it all. Every little trait however small, makes my very flesh begin to crawl, with simple utter loathing there's a strange exhilaration in such total detestation. It's so pure so strong though I do admit it came on fast still I do believe that it can last and I will be loathing, loathing you my whole life long." I pulled off that verse spectacularly, if I do say so myself. Now comes the hard part. The chorus. Urgh.

Thankfully, my cell phone will be doing most of the work on the chorus.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

Good heavens! Would that cell phone battery never die? Or had Kinchloe figured out a way to recharge the blasted thing? As the singing continued on and on about loathing, something we already knew: IronAmerica did not like Hogan. Not news to anyone. Sure, sure, she had extra special reason to be angry with him now, having sent her brother God-knows-where, but why torture _us_ along with him?

Remembering something from the TV episodes, I started toward the ladders leading up to the barracks. There was a certain red, white, and blue striped tin can in Hogan's office, which I did recall seeing for real, that in the show always seemed to be their source of 'knock-out' pills—probably contemporary sleeping pills, chloral hydrate, most likely.

It may sound like I was contemplating Something Dire of my own toward IronAmerica, but my real thought was to intercept something even worse being done to her. Let's face it, even though I didn't particularly like him myself, Colonel Hogan was one of the good guys. But he was one of the good guys in a very tenuous, dangerous situation. He had to make hard, cold decisions and act on them without sentiment. This was something we all knew instantly the moment we arrived in the here-and-now. Sit-com hero though we had known him to be, we all knew the other side of his reality had to exist.

As I scrambled up the ladder, I considered how Hogan's decision to toss the time gadget to Byakugan more than likely was not the impulsive action it had appeared to be, but a carefully calculated one. First of all, Byakugan, though from our time, not 1943, was a military-aged male. Hogan may have effectively 'drafted' him into military service at that moment, placing him subject to Hogan's command. On top of which, having his sister still here meant Byakugan would do everything in his power to make sure she was saved and return home; wouldn't blow off his mission out of spite (however tempting that would be under the circumstances). Like it or not, Hogan had made a reasoned choice, all things considered.

Strains of, "Loathing, What is this feeling so unadulterated loathing sudden and new felt the for her face moment I laid eyes on her voice you, my pulse is her clothing rushing my head is lets just say reeling WE LOATHE IT ALL! Oh what is this feeling? every little trait however small makes our very flesh does it have a name? begin to crawl yes, ahhhh Loathing. Loathing. There's a strange exhilaration. Loathing. In such total detestation. Loathing. It's so pure so strong. So strong," chased me up the ladder to the ante-chamber beneath the bunk tunnel entrance. The bunk was up, the entrance open already, with a pair of boots swinging over the side.

Someone had beaten me to the idea. LeBeau scrambled down the ladder, the striped tin can in one hand. Our eyes met as he hid the ante-chamber floor.

"Don't poison her," I said, sternly.

A small grin twitched across his face as he realized I knew exactly what he was up to. "Non, non," LeBeau said, "Just a soothing cup of cocoa to help the poor girl rest and sleep after this terrible ordeal."

Standing back, I let LeBeau go down first, working my way back down the steep ladder more slowly.

* * *

**IronAmerica:**

I take a deep breath, recollecting myself for the next verse. I mentally take time to thank my chorus teacher for this idea. I studiously ignore Hogan, who looks like he's in shock.

"Though I do admit it came on fast still I do believe that it can last and I will be Loathing. Loathing for forever Loathing. Loathing truly deeply loathing. Loathing you, you my whole life long loathing, unadulterated loathing." I finish, now acutely aware that my arms are above my head, and I'm grinning like a mad woman.

Several cheers and wolf-whistles accompany my finale, and I look around, wondering why everyone is cheering. I seem to have gotten very close to Hogan, and I can see his eyes perfectly.

Which turns out to not be a good thing.

"IronAmerica, may I speak to you privately?" I shrug, grinning. Why not? I pick up my jacket, aware that I'm in pants and a short sleeved t-shirt. Apparently the guys weren't looking at my face. Sigh. Men. They are SO predictable.

Following Colonel Hogan down a side tunnel, I have to wonder what's wrong with him. He deserves it. But that's from my standpoint.

Finally, he whirls around, and glares at me. I cringe a little, before standing at parade rest. He rubs one hand over his eyes, almost tiredly. "While I can't say that you aren't a good singer, I'd have to say that you are disrupting my operation."

Well ain't that obvious.

"If you don't shape up your attitude in the next few hours, young lady, I think that there will be one less time traveler going home." He looks directly at me, and I cringe again. He is definitely not in his happy place.

Now I have to ask myself why I enjoy putting myself in mortal peril by annoying Hogan. Am I being suicidal? Probably. Am I an adrenaline junkie? Nope. Am I just nuts? It's debatable. Or maybe, just maybe, it's entirely possible that I actually hate him. Wow.

"Shape up." The or else is left hanging in the air. Yup, I actually hate him.


	60. Something Dire, Part 4

****

Something Dire, Part 4  
_**Operation Tardis**_

**by Cat, Tuttle, GSJessica, Jake, Hexiva**

**Cat:**

I don't know how long we were out, but waking up I found we were on the floor in the belly of a plane flying to God knows where. Nope, actually we all did. Germany. Swell.

"It is about time you woke up." There was the General standing before us. Niente was apparently awake, but Olsen was still out before us. The general nudged him with his foot none too gently. "Sergeant, I'm quite aware you are now awake. I suggest it will go easier if you just get up now."

Olsen's eyes popped open and slowly he inched his way to a sitting position.

"Yes, this is much better," the general replied pleased. "You three are going to help me. I know you are all working with Colonel Robert Hogan and his elaborate plot of time-travelers."

"MMM-mm." I murbled from the gag, breaking in real life my number one rules in fiction: You don't poke the crazies. Nope, especially when they have power over you. Besides, somewhere along the way I had lost my glasses, so while not technically blind, I was at a real disadvantage with my astigmatism.

He then proceeded to grab my face and turn it as if he were trying to catch a better light, "You are not unattractive. Yes, you will do fine." Okay. Not unattractive. What in hell is that supposed to mean? I can go down the streets and not frighten women and children to say nothing of the horses? CONCENTRATE! Now is not the time to get upset over what a person says of your looks.

He left us together to silently contemplate whatever he had planned. We couldn't even talk to each other.

Finally, we landed. It was dark, but we still didn't know what time. I tried to see what the watch said on one of the men who grabbed us, but it was a dial without numbers and I couldn't make out the hands. Great. The general was watching us taken out of the plane must have noticed.

"It is 2100 hours Greenwich time right now."

Double great. We're not home, we're in Germany. We weren't even together. Olsen and Niente were taken away to somewhere I had no clue and I was taken into a small furnished room. I think I wanted to cry. No, I know I wanted to cry and preceded to do so.

* * *

**Tuttle:**

I wandered the tunnels aimlessly, my mind caught up in less than cheerful thoughts. Golly. How was I supposed to deal with this? I mean, a month ago, I considered throwing out my raggedy old sneakers a traumatic occasion. Don't laugh- those shoes and I had gone through a lot together! But throwing old, beloved shoes in the garbage wasn't really in the same league as the things I had done here.

Throwing my head back, I let out a groan before dropping my head into my hands. Maybe I could just pretend the whole thing was a dream. And when the others would bring it up, I could just pretend they were a bunch of overly enthusiastic, crazy, delusional fans. Ah yes, good plan.

For when I was home at least. But what about now? I couldn't very well pretend it wasn't happening when I was right smack dab in the middle of it.

I let out a little sigh. I didn't know. I would just have to deal with it, I supposed. I couldn't just break down now, what good would that do?

Of course, what good had it done when I had pulled myself together? Oh yes, the party had been a smashing success, save no one noticed Drebber's absence. And I'm sure the fact I had kept it together brought great comfort to Byakugan and Iron America. And Kinch and his radio. And that train. Stupid, stupid train.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

"Well, Hochstetter is finally gone," Hogan said, appearing in all black, along with Newkirk, Carter, LeBeau, and Jake. Aside from the pinned up long, red hair, Jake fit into Hogan's team perfectly. "It's time to raid the time lab. Destroy it. Get the other time device. And get this Samantha Pepper."

"I'm going with," I said, abruptly. I just couldn't bear sitting down in this tunnel—maybe forever—any longer. The bigger reason? I absolutely was not going to let Colonel Hogan have total control over our destinies. Much as I understood the reasoning about Byakugan, I didn't want to be the next involuntary conscript.

Hogan studied me critically. "Can you handle a gun?"

"Yes," I said. He handed me an American semi-auto. I checked it over, while Hogan watched, finally nodding something resembling approval. I tucked it into my waistband. Oh, yes—I'd changed back into my own clothes (thank heavens!). No more garter belts or high heels. Jeans and a dark sweater. Real shoes. Goopy lipstick and thick 1940's makeup wiped off. That whole being a lady thing had been almost more stressful than anything else.

"Can you guarantee you won't shoot one of us?" Hogan asked. The jerk.

"No," I answered. "Can you guarantee you won't 'accidentally' send me back to the Dark Ages?"

I noticed he didn't answer that.

"You're coming with," I said to Linda in a 'not asking' way. She didn't argue, but did decline a weapon. Having arrived in 1943 in shorts and a tee shirt, Linda was provided a 'Heroes' black outfit. We were ready to go.

* * *

**Tuttle:**

Finally, I rounded a corner, finding myself back where I started. I stood in the shadows, watching the others. The heroes, save Kinch, were standing there, dressed in black, along with Jake. Going out to the lab. Good, then we could go home.

"I'm going with," Jessica said.

"Can you handle a gun?" Hogan asked.

"Yes."

I grimaced and turned on my heel, quickly walking away from the scene.

I don't know why. Maybe I'm just petty (I am a jerk, after all), but I honestly felt a little angry at Jessica and more than a little jealous.

Yes, go. Go and be a hero. And good luck to you!

* * *

**GSJessica:**

"All right," Colonel Hogan said, approaching Linda and I as we were all ready to leave. I don't know about her, but I felt far more scared than heroic. Not ready to back out, mind you! It was too important to go, but most sincerely wishing the universe would suddenly grant my fervent prayer that we not have to do this but could magically be transported home.

"I want you two to stay back," Hogan told us, "with Tiger." Did Linda squee! at that? I tried to sneak a sideways look without being too obvious. "You'll watch the approach road. Hochstetter is on is way to the lab. If he makes it past our other diversions, you'll be the last line of defense to stop him."

"Stop him how?" Linda asked.

"Use your imagination," Hogan said with a shrug.

Linda and I shared a glance, and a mutual shrug. Actually, that was do-able. We'd already played Hochstetter a bunch of different ways. Give him more of the "Heil Hochstetter" adoring fans from the future and he'd be distracted. Failing that…

"But make sure you stop him, at all costs," Hogan added, his eyes landing hard on me.

Ew. Ulp. Right. There was that hard reality and not a sit com thing. This wasn't a game and all our lives were at stake. Not just our lives, either…

In a very solemn state, we all headed out.

* * *

**Hexiva:**

"_Labor? Wissenschaft?_" tried Herzer, not noticing my discomfort.

I wished I could step away from him a little. He looked like he was about to pick me up by the shoulders and shake me.

"_Kleine Wörter, bitte,_" I pleaded. _'Small words, please.'_ "_Mein Deutsch ist schlecht_." '_My German is bad.'_

Herzer made an irritated gesture, as if wondering how in the world one was to express whatever it was in small words, and said something to the guards.

I was being led into the building. I swallowed hard. What did _Wissenschaft _mean? I knew what _wissen_ meant, but I couldn't fathom the rest of the word.

_"Wo sind wir?" _I asked Herzer. '_Where are we?'_

He looked irritated. _"Ich sagte. Ein Labor." _

I shook my head as we entered the building. The inside wasn't much more revealing than the outside, being just a blank white corridor.

_"Was ist ein Labor?" _I asked.

He didn't answer, just gestured around us.

I paused to assemble a sentence, then answered. "_Ich weiß, wir sind in ein Labor. Aber was _ist _es?" 'I know we're in ein Labor. But what _is _it?'_

_"Sie werden bald sehen." 'You'll see soon.' _He looked at me, apparently doubting my intelligence, and added, _"Ich hoffe." 'I hope.' _

He stopped suddenly, talked to the guards at one of the doors, and then showed them what I assume was his identification. They let us in without protest, although they looked askance at me. It's kind of obvious I'm not German.

* * *

**Jake:**

Everything was quiet around the compound. Tiger and I, as well as several others of the Resistance, were with Col. Hogan and his men waiting in the north woods. Dr. Schnitzer had been contacted, and he showed up with the required female dog, releasing it near the west side of the fence and fading into the woods. Six of the Alsatians tore over, raising a din that was almost enough of a diversion all by itself. Then there was the blast as Kaufmann's mortar shell tore a hole in the south end of the fence. Newkirk and Carter took out the gate guards at the north end (it was more than a little startling to see _Carter_ using a garrote), and we went in. With everyone else either down at the south end assessing the damage, or combing the woods all around the compound looking for the saboteur--whom we prayed was already far out of Dodge--our entry went unchallenged, and we headed straight for the lab.

* * *

**Hexiva:**

Inside was an extremely white room filled with quite a number of people fiddling with strange gadgets. I think I saw something in one corner spark.

"_Labor!" _I said, finally figuring out what it meant. _Labor_-atory.

"_Sie verstehen?_" Herzer asked. '_You understand?'_

_"Ja," _I answered. "_Ich denke. Ein Labor ist--" _I rubbed my eyes. I had never had to speak so much German before. Actually, I had never _had _to speak German at all. I started to list every form of science I could think of, including etymology, although I can't think why that would be done in a laboratory.

Apparently enough of the words coincided with their German equivalents, because Herzer held up a hand. I suppose he's figured out that the way to communicate with me is to gesture and speak loudly and clearly. No wonder he thinks I'm an idiot.

He pointed at a box lying, innocuously enough, on a table. I peered at its contents. It was a sort of watch-like thing with characters around the edge that I didn't recognize.

A _golden _watch-like thing. My heartbeat sped up. Could this be the golden thing Herzer and Byakugan were so convinced had brought me? If so, could I use it to get back to 2008? I reached out to touch it.

Herzer slapped my hand away from it and snapped something.

"Sorry!" I said, somewhat defensively, as I rubbed my hand.

He stared at me, and then muttered something that ended in 'Hochstetter' and contained the word 'Englisch.'

"Yeah, I wish he'd sent someone who spoke English, too," I guessed. _On the other hand, as it is I can say just about anything I want in English and it won't get me shot._

As I was finishing that thought, a gunshot rang out. I hit the ground. I react badly to loud noises behind me. It has resulted in me eating sand before. As it turns out, sand is much better that concrete. My nose feels like it's vibrating.

"_Was war das?_" I said when I recovered a bit. '_What was that?'_

"_Ich weiß nicht," _Herzer answered. '_I don't know.'_ He, I noted, was still standing.

I got back up, slightly embarrassed, and looked around. For a moment, there was no-one there who didn't look like they oughtn't to have been there. Then the door burst open, and a bunch of men and women wearing black filed in, the men and some of women carrying guns.

I flinched and clutched at the table for support. The man at the head of the group was the one I had run from in the tunnels. Colonel Hogan.

The Germans all had their hands up. I followed suit, a bit belatedly. After I had managed to survive the Nazis, was I about to be shot by my own side?

Hogan shouted something in German, and everyone started moving towards one wall. I followed.

"I'm an American," I protested.

The lady currently pointing a gun at me looked surprised. I took another look at her. Was she a time traveler, too? Or was she in the German underground?

* * *

**Jake:**

There she was, flanked by two of the scientists, with two Gestapo guards behind the group. Anger of an intensity that surprised me rose up at the sight of her. "Well, well; if it isn't Hanoi Jane," I snarled.


	61. Finale, Part 1

**Mary Sue Experiments  
****The Final Chapters**

_All parts are written to complete this tale to its ending,  
at which point each of the participants will be invited to write an individual epilogue chapter.  
So, much more of this adventure is to come, but the ending is on the near horizon!_

by Jake, GSJessica, Hexiva, Linda, Cat, Niente Zero, IronAmerica

When last we left our semi-brave little band:

**Jake, GSJessica, and Linda** were joining Hogan and the Heroes to raid the time lab.

**Hexiva** was with the scientist Herzer in the time lab.

**IronAmerica**, after having been slipped a mickey by LeBeau, and **Tuttle,** who is traumatized with guilt, remained in the Stalag 13 tunnels.

**Cat, Niente Zero, and Olsen** had been taken prisoner by General Biedenbender and had been flown back to Germany.

And **Byakugan** had been sent heaven-knew-when by Hogan with the time gadget.

* * *

**Jake:**

"Well, well; if it isn't Hanoi Jane," I snarled.

She stared at me in frank confusion. "My name is Samantha Pepper," she said, her tone that of someone clearing up a case of mistaken identity. "Who are you?"

I never got the chance to answer, as several things happened at once. The two guards aimed their own weapons, and the scientists, clearly concerned about potential damage to facilities and equipment, protested vociferously. None of us could get a clear shot, though the guards didn't seem to care who was in the way. One of them looked about ready to shoot right _through_ Miss Pepper.

One of the scientists pulled her out of the way, and the other one grabbed for the gun. I dove for the floor, wrenching my right arm pretty thoroughly in the process, as Newkirk, Carter, and the Resistance took advantage of the confusion to tackle the guards.

I clutched my arm, gritting out a string of four-letter words that turned the air positively purple around me, certain I'd torn a muscle at the very least, and then I noticed that my arm and the hand clutching it were wet and sticky. The first thing I noticed when I looked was rapidly oozing blood, its dark-red color and lack of a pulsating flow a good sign: The artery was not involved.

My next thought was, _They're right; you really don't hear the one that gets you._

It all seemed to happen in slow motion; in reality, maybe five seconds had elapsed from my snarky greeting to the time I called out, "I'm hit!"

It was Carter who found the wound kit on a guard's belt--both of the Gestapo men were now unconscious, their hands secured behind them with their own handcuffs.

With a knife he opened up the sleeve, then offered me morphine, which I refused. Between my small size and a really funky metabolism, a "normal" dose for most people puts me so far under that I scared the nurses when I had surgery some years ago.

He folded the med pouch in two and stuck it between my teeth, then carefully inspected the wound.

A dentist could have made a set of dentures from the impression I left in the leather.

"It's just a flesh wound," he reassured me when he was done. "It just grazed you. It looks a lot worse than it really is…"

He nattered on in typical Carter fashion, though, unlike the TV version, he didn't stop what he was doing. I let him ramble, too busy catching my breath to interrupt him. I even let him dump the sulfa powder on the wound, despite the fact that I'm allergic to the stuff.

It started itching almost immediately. Since I do have one or two other allergies that tend to hit suddenly and severely, I routinely carry children's chewable Benadryl in my pocket; while Carter was busily bandaging my arm, I peeled open the little blister-pac with my teeth.

When he was done, I told him to cut the sleeve off the shirt entirely, since the loose-flapping cloth was just another hazard. _Bomp! Bomp! Bomp! Another one bites the dust! _the old song ran through my head, and it dimly occurred to me that I must be getting shocky.

After I struggled to my feet, with a belt-hoist from Carter, I leaned against the wall until the head-rush passed. Carter tried to hand me the Luger I'd dropped; I shook my head. "I'm strictly a right-handed shooter," I told him. "I can't even hold onto it now."

The crisis past, the rest of the world started coming back into focus. The other guys had dragged the guards against a wall, out of the way. Their ankles had been tied together with their own belts, with the ends looped through the handcuff chains, and they'd both been gagged. I was surprised, at first, that they hadn't killed them, until I remembered that "zero body count"--a term not invented for another fifty years or so, for a concept older than dirt--was as integral to undercover work as drop points and code names. They killed only when absolutely necessary.

As for Pepper, she was staring at me, looking a little green around the gills; I had little sympathy for her. Whatever her motives for collaborating with the Nazis, I hoped this would serve as a wake-up call.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

I headed toward the lab after getting the signal from Tiger. She, in turn, moved to take over my position watching the entry road with Linda. I had been quite adamant with Hogan that I fully intended to come into the lab… once the shooting stopped, that is. I'm a techno geek, not a soldier, though I was being factual when I said I could handle a gun. You see, I'm also not a city girl. I've seen a few of life's harder things…

Oh, merciful God. But nothing like this.

There had been shooting. Shrapnel. Blood. Not-living people. Some… parts. You don't raid a place like this without casualties, but that's a tidy way to say "Fritz won't be coming home. Ever." On TV they'd probably sneak up behind the guards and gently smack them over their heads. Here… well, the Underground fellows—Frenchmen, mostly—were definitely shooting to kill. And someone had used something that cut into their throats.

I'm glad it was dark.

Inside the lab, where Hogan and his team, including Jake, had gone, there had been more mayhem, but less deadly violence. Apparently the TV show had drawn that aspect from some reality. I'd have to ask Jake later about her take on it all.

Jake… More blood. I did a quick mental toughen-up and shut off my squeamishness, for now, at least. I'd be shaking later. I suddenly wished Marty had taken the bait and come back in time. We could have used her nursing skills. But Jake seemed relatively okay, being tended by Carter. Cripes… shot on an Underground mission in World War II. That would be one for the grandkids… assuming, you know, we survived…

I got back on task, forcing myself to ignore everything going on around me, I went right for the paperwork strewn about. I found a briefcase that seemed to belong to one of the scientist guys and started stuffing in anything that looked important. Here's why I came along. I wanted to make darned sure any info these scientists may have figured out about the time gadget and how to operate it came back with us. We needed it to decipher the thing. Knowing German helped me do some quick scans to pick out the important stuff. We couldn't take everything and coming back with a pile of official-looking papers actually just requisitioning toilet paper, while the real research data went up in flames, would be a bit disappointing.

* * *

**Hexiva:**

I stared down at the woman, feeling the odd sort of helpless embarrassment I feel when someone's been hurt and there's nothing I can do to help. It was further complicated by the fact that this person had only a minute been holding a gun on me. It's hard to feel real sympathy for someone who threatened to kill you.

I looked away when the woman caught me staring. "Sorry," I muttered, and glanced around the rest of the lab.

"You!" I heard Hogan snap. "What's your codename?"

I cringed. Now he thought I was part of some sort of secret organization. I wondered what I should say. Make up something? Protest that I had nothing to do with anything whatsoever?

"Screen name," the injured woman clarified, and I nodded, relieved. Ah, yes. I have a screenname. I don't have a code name. But why would Hogan, who by all rights shouldn't even know what a website _is, _wish to know about that?

"Hexiva," I said, not wanted to aggravate my already frightening situation by arguing.

"I know her, she's one of us," interjected a woman sorting through the paper on Herzer's desk.

_One of us? _What 'us' could that be? An American 'us?' A 2008 'us?' A female 'us?' What did any of that have to do with my username?

I had no time to ask those questions, because shortly the injured woman, who appeared to be taking her wound pretty well, started to gesture for me to go outside._ More gesturing. Come on, I speak perfectly good English!_

* * *

**GSJessica:**

As I dug through papers, on the peripheries of my concentration, I heard Hogan demanding to know Samantha Pepper's code name.

"Screen name," Jake modified the demand tersely.

After some frightened sounds, I heard the girl said, "Hexiva."

"I know her," I called back over my shoulder. "She's one of us." I was less sure than Jake if her 'collaboration' with the Nazis rose to Hanoi Jane level, but we could sort it out once we were out of here and safe. Saf_er._ The important thing now was to remember Hexiva was one of us, here accidentally. Okay, she was here because I sent a stupid text message that a bunch of other people just as stupidly took seriously, but after that it was all accidental. Anyhow, I would not believe one of us would genuinely side with the Nazis.

The scientists were herded outside by Carter, Newkirk, and Jake, who was either escorting or guarding Hexiva. It was hard to tell which. Getting shot seemed to have made Jake somewhat short-tempered.

* * *

**Linda:**

I make myself as small as possible, suddenly feeling that my already-small stature isn't quite small enough, and draw in as close as politely possible to Tiger. "Do you do this often?" I ask, trying so hard to regain some small semblance of self-control. First, I meet Colonel Robert Hogan. _The_ Colonel Robert Hogan. Then, I have to pretend to have the hots for Major Hochstetter. _The_ Major Hochstetter. And now, I'm scrunched up in the cold and hiding in the dark with Tiger. _The_ Tiger. She's beautiful. Different from her actress counterpart, less "coquettish", but definitely beautiful. And I'm left reminding myself every time she looks at me that, no matter how mind-blowing this whole situation is, the danger we're both potentially in right now is real. _Real._ There's no time for me to be overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity and amazing-ness of it all. I could be up the creek. Without a paddle. _I don't even have a creek!_

"I try not to," Tiger answers.

Her eyes are darting everywhere. I watch her in amazement, then realize that mine should be doing the same. Suppose Hochstetter shows up?? "Improvise," Hogan said. Well, I'm an actress, but what excuse would I have for being here now, in blacks, crouched in the woods with a French Resistance leader?

* * *

**Cat:**

So there I was in a small furnished room, separated from Olsen and Niente, prisoner of General Biedenbender, somewhere in Germany. Things couldn't be much worse right? WRONG! Into the room walks in a Gestapo major. Oh not just any major, but our good fiend, Major Hochstetter.

"So you are the one the general has chosen to help us." He said in much accented English, all the while appraising me. "Yes, you would pass. You are not unattractive, I hear you do speak German, and you are small; so easily handled. Yes, you will do fine."

In spite of being with the actual Hochstetter, this was not a squee moment for me. He was very attractive in an extremely superficial way. Dark hair, dark eyes, chiseled features, but someone to keep in a corner to look at as a piece of art; there was no warmth in him, no human compassion. Nice piece of art; very flawed human. And every inch the good SS officer.

"Undress."

What?! Omygod. I read about how women, men, and even children were ordered to undress before being killed in one of the many efficient ways of the SS. I've seen the pictures at the Holocaust museum. (This, unfortunately, was very clear in my mind as I had just visited it the weekend before I visited the Archives. My ticket and "passbook id" were still in my purse wherever that was. Hopefully my passbook was not foreshadowing, as the person I had didn't survive the war.)

But, if I was going to help them in some mysterious way, that meant I wasn't going to be shot, that meant….OH GOD NO!!


	62. Finale, Part 2

**Mary Sue Experiments  
The Final Chapters**

**by Niente Zero, Cat, Linda**

**Niente Zero:**

I was relieved when Cat was singled out as being attractive enough for Biedenbender's scheme. Relieved, and then ashamed. Deeply. I should be braver. I should not wish the difficult path on someone else. But I couldn't help what I felt, and that was what stayed with me for the rest of the flight.

After we landed, Olsen and I were hustled into a demountable building while Cat was lead elsewhere. I didn't like being split up like that. Our building was small, with a bare concrete floor and some kind of metal walls. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, which I guess was also the roof. It wasn't cosy. We were shoved in, still bound and gagged, and told in fairly bad English that if any of us tried anything, we'd all be killed. The nuance was unclear, but there was a definite suggestion that it would not be a quick death. The guard left us with the door bolted and the lightbulb off. It was a dark, silent box.

And that's when shame turned to something else. Oh, there was fear. I had probably stunk of fear from the first encounter with Biedenbender onward. I'd been on the edge of fear in HQ all morning from the suspicious looks I'd been getting. In retrospect, it was obvious that Sarah had reported on our drunken carry-on. I could kick myself for that. Loose lips sink ships. But I guess not only our lips were loose. Whoever she'd reported to, the information had got to Biedenbender. Fear, anyway. Omnipresent. But when we were threatened, my overwhelming reaction was atavistic rage.

Inasmuch as my mettle has ever been tested, which is to say, not much, it turns out that I will not tolerate harm coming to those who fall under the circle of 'mine.' Cat was one of mine now, we'd worked together, eaten together, laughed together. Olsen, I didn't have the same reason to feel loyal to, but he was Allied, and that put him in a larger category of 'mine.' It was absolutely no use telling the part of me that raged and roared that I was the least equipped of us to protect these people. All I felt then was an irrational desire to hurt someone for daring to utter the threat. Biedenbender would do. I would smash his face in.

By the time the rage died down to slightly less than artery-popping levels, I had begun working loose my gag. Just chewing on it, stretching it out with my jaw as much as I could, anything to get it off. I had no chance with the ropes, I was never much of a girl guide. But if I could loosen the gag, I could at least talk to Olsen.

Which was of great importance. Not just because I was afraid, angry, and helpless alone in the dark. But because I had something I needed him to understand. Cat I thought I knew now. Cat would feel like me, that she was responsible for protecting the two of us. I imagined that the same warning had been put to her. She wouldn't risk my life or Olsen's on the chance of an escape.

Olsen was an unknown quantity. He was military, he knew the necessity of making sacrifices for the greater good. I thought it possible that he would take any chance he got to escape and warn Hogan that something was going on.

Finally, my gag was loose enough to drop down over my chin. I worked my jaw a bit more, and tried to wet my mouth enough to speak after chewing on all that cloth.

"Sergeant Olsen." I said. He didn't respond, and I didn't know if that was because he was still gagged, had gone to sleep, was furious with me, or what. I carried on.

"I hope you're awake to hear this. Listen. Please." I thought about what I had to say. I really wanted him to understand it, even though it probably wouldn't change his mind, whichever way it was made up.

"Cat and I screwed up. But you can't let that affect you. I would like you to promise me-" it was difficult, I nearly didn't have the guts to ask, "promise me that if you get a chance to escape, to get back to Hogan, you'll take it. Don't think twice. Don't let us-"

That was all I could manage. I just asked him to get me killed, and worse, asked him to do the same to Cat. Even anger couldn't make me brave enough for that not to feel terrible.

It was a while before he replied, and his voice was hoarse, presumably for the same reason that mine was scratchy, working the gag loose, but it wasn't unkind considering the huge mess we'd got him into and the risk we'd created for the entire operation.

"Don't you worry about that now, Miss Nenty." he said.

Which really didn't confirm or deny that given the chance, he'd do it. I hoped he would, and at the same time I hoped he wouldn't. I wanted him to do the right thing, but more, I wanted him to find a miraculous way to rescue us all. I wanted to be anywhere else but lying in a dark room, trying not to cry loudly enough for him to hear.

* * *

**Cat:**

"No…please…."

"Do you wish to do it yourself, or shall I help you?"

No, I did not want him near me. Trembling, I slowly undid the buttons of my outer coat. "Hurry!" he barked. Some other men dressed as civilians came in and stood against the wall as if waiting. It's just getting worse. Again, I tried to say something, but again he asked, "Do I have to help you?"

Finally, Biedenbender came in as I was down to my slip and fully crying in hysterics. "Was ist das?"

Hochstetter was apparently explaining, in a very insulting way what was about to happen when Biedenbender finally shouted, "MEIN GOTT!" and grabbed my suit from the floor and threw it at the men waiting. He then rattled off some instructions to them and off they went. Evidently, even in disgrace, the general still commanded some respect. He then proceeded to take off his own coat and put it around me.

"They needed your measurements for the clothes you are going to wear tomorrow." He explained to me in English; not exactly in a comforting tone, but at least I knew now I was somewhat safe. For the moment.

I looked at Hochstetter. The bastard. He didn't explain anything, but let me think the worst. He knew he was torturing me and was enjoying it. In the show, Biedenbender had called Hogan a devil. He was wrong. The devil was here in the room, and did not look anything like Hogan except they both had dark hair and eyes.

Biedenbender then went over to a small side table on which sat a small glass decanter filled three quarters with a dark golden liquid and two small, stemmed glasses. Filling the glasses he kept one and gave the other to me ignoring Hochstetter. "Drink, it will help calm you."

I looked at the glass warily. He watched me then smiled and took a drink from his glass. "See, it is perfectly safe. Now drink."

Trying to also ignore Hochstetter, I took a drink and immediately choked. Whoa, was it strong. I could feel it warming me up as it was coursing through my veins and then again radiating out from my stomach when it finally arrived there. I hadn't even realized I was cold until then.

"Better?" Biedenbender asked as he sat down on one of the chairs in the room and motioned me to sit in the chair directly opposite.

"Bah," was the comment from Hochstetter as he leaned against the credenza against the wall. He then began to speak to the general in very fast German. I could catch a few words, but, not enough.

The general looked over to Hochstetter then back to me, "She needs to know what we expect of her, if this plan is going to work correctly." This was spoken in English for my benefit.

This did not bode well. Without thinking, I curled deep into the general's coat. I was getting some comfort from the silky feeling of the lining still warm from the general's body, and the weight of the coat. It reminded me of my father's loden coat; I used to like to wrap up in it when he came home from work and hadn't hung it up yet in the closet.

Filling my glass again, he began to explain. "As I said in the plane, we know Colonel Hogan has had some plan dealing with time travelers…"

"You. You are Eloi." Hochstetter cut in pointing at me.

"Me, Eloi? Do I look like an advisor?" I was totally confused.

Hochstetter looked slightly puzzled himself before he regained control. "No, you are Eloi, a person from the future."

"NNooo. Eloi was King Dagobert's advisor. I don't think he had anything to do with time travel. You know:

_"Le bon roi Dagobert  
__A mis sa culotte à l'envers;  
__Le grand saint Éloi  
__Lui dit : Ô mon roi!  
__Votre Majesté  
__Est mal culottée.  
__C'est vrai, lui dit le roi,  
__Je vais la remettre à l'endroit_." I was rather impressed I remembered the lines in French.

"But what does this have to do with me?" I added belatedly.

Hochstetter just looked at me blankly for a second, then recollected himself and showed me a copy of the instructions telling Niente and me to go to Gringotts and look for a note from Eloi.

"Can you deny that this is about Eloi and it's for you? We know you went to the Bank of England to pick something up."

Okay, I started to try thinking fast. "No, we went to open an account. We were going to get paid and already had money. I mean, you can't keep your money in a mattress can you? We never got to Gringotts. Your men picked us up before we could get there." I had just thought of the note. Okay, who had the note now… Did I put it in my pocket or did Niente have it? Oh great. Well, I couldn't tell them anything the note had in it, even if I wanted to.

"Where is Gringotts?" Apparently Hochstetter was going to be the _Meister _Interrogator here.

"Isn't it obvious?" _think Cat, think_. "Westminster Abbey."

"What?"

One for me. He wasn't expecting that one.

"Yes, I mean, Gringott. You know, _Grün Gott_. Every medieval church in England has a Green Man hidden away." Okay, taking a chance here, but, I'm thinking Hochstetter isn't going to be well versed in English medieval churches. Some of the old churches have the Green Man, but I'm not thinking an abbey would—well, maybe they would.

"Green Man-Green God-_Grün Gott_." I continued, "It's just been corrupted to Gringotts through the ages. Although some think it's actually called Grin God because the Green Man is usually shown smiling. Find the Green Man and you find the message. Saints, Gods, Abbeys. Makes sense doesn't it?" _Okay, now Cat, shut up before you talk yourself into a corner._ To make sure I didn't say anything else I took another drink. It went down a bit smoother than the first time. I seemed to think this was a good way for me to keep my mouth shut. Too bad, I didn't notice during the interrogation that Biedenbender had kept my glass filled.

Biedenbender looked amused at Hochstetter's confusion. Good to know. They are working as allies, but don't really like each other. Okay, a weapon. Much good it would do me. It's the same as if someone gave me a bazooka and told me to use it. Great weapon, but if you don't know what to do with it: totally useless.

"Maybe we should just tell her our plan. You can always interrogate her later when we have Hogan." Uh, why do they need me to get Hogan, can't they just go into camp and grab him?

I think he was expecting the question, because he answered it even though I never said it out loud.

"Unfortunately, in spite of our experiences with Hogan, and the proof that Hochstetter has regarding sabotage in the area, there are some who do not believe that Hogan is the danger to Germany as we see him. We could take him and arrest him, hang him for his activities but, there will still be people in Berlin saying we used him as a scapegoat for our incompetency. AND I will still be seen as a traitor. However, if we are able to capture him using his own methods, catch him red-handed as it were…"

"We'll be seen as heroes to the Third Reich!"

"My family will be safe again," finished Biedenbender quietly as if Hochstetter never cut in.

Family? Oh don't tell me anything about a family. I want to believe you're an entity unto yourself; an evil creature that has nothing in common with humanity.

"So, we are using you as our bait. We know from our contacts in London that Hogan has sent you to London. But, he does not trust you. We will make it seem like he is correct. You will be going back to Stalag 13 as General Biedenbender's _Freudin,"_ Hochstetter finishing up the explanation. "You are to be our lure. Hogan will think he has been caught, but he will be unsettled. We will take advantage of this and ensnare him."

They were definitely giving me the down and dirty version. I'm sure they were planning something more.

"What if I don't want to be the General's _Freudin_?" Well, the question had to be asked.

"Then we will just kill you and both of your friends." Hochstetter then smiled, and added, "eventually." Of course there are some questions you don't want to hear the answer to.

"I'm in."

Let me say here and now. If you haven't caught on yet, I'm not a chess player. I can't think of strategy ahead of two plays. Add into the mix that I play against someone with entirely different ideas of strategy always throws anything I have planned up against the wall. Also, I never can sacrifice pieces. In chess, you always sacrifice at least one piece for the game. Nope, I cannot. Well, maybe the faceless pawns, but once the pieces start looking sentient, I can't do it. So, asking me to give up the lives of Niente and Olsen for the greater good? Well, maybe I just don't have the moral fiber to do it. I know about sacrificing the few for the many, but, blast it all, I haven't talked with the many, and I have talked with Niente and Olsen. I've eaten with them. I don't plan on dying here, and if I live I don't plan on living with the knowledge that because of me, two friends have died. If I can get to Stalag 13 maybe Hogan can think of something. Even if Hogan kills me, at least I'll know I did save two lives. Because Hogan wouldn't kill Niente and Olsen…would he?

"If you are thinking that Hogan will get you out of this someway, here, read this." Hochstetter was really enjoying himself as he handed me a piece of paper.

The message read "_Take Niente and Catalyna into custody after pick up and transmission of Gringotts message from Eloi._"

I felt like I was hit in the stomach; hard. No, Colonel Hogan didn't write this. It had to be a trap. He was going to send us home. _But, why were there MPs chasing us after we left the Bank of England?… because they thought we were signaling to Biedenbender because of my stupid Beetlejuice… it had to be… no, Niente said headquarters was on edge even before the Beetlejuice episode... but, there could have been some military reason for that… it didn't have to be us… Hogan never trusted you, you know that… he sent you to London… STOP BEING PARANOID!_

Hochstetter was really enjoying my confusion now. "See, that is what your Hogan thinks of you. You are traitors to your countries."

Just then someone had come in to give a message to Hochstetter. Whatever it was, he did not look happy. "Excuse me, Herr General; I have to leave to finish our plans." He then turned to me, "Fraulein, it will be interesting to watch tomorrow. Which will you betray? Your friends or Hogan?"

Still holding the paper, I curled deeper into the coat. "Would you care to finish the decanter?" asked Biedenbender while holding up the decanter; now only a little left in the bottom. How did that happen?

I shook my head and was about to answer when I noticed my lips were becoming numb. "I've lost my lips..."

He laughed a small chuckle, "no, they are still there." He bent and kissed me lightly on the lips, "See, there they are."

Oh God.

"I'm going to bed now. You may join me if you wish."

Oh Lordy, Lord. At least I was able to answer this time. "Nooo, I think I'll just stay right here if that's all right with everyone."

He chuckled again and left with a "suit yourself." I could hear him give orders in German to the guards outside the door and then the door was left open so they could see me and what I was doing. Great. No privacy, but at least I'll last until morning.

* * *

**Linda:**

Suddenly, I notice Tiger studying me. "You are scared?" she asks.

I'd love to say no, but I can't. But I don't want to say yes, either.

I guess I wait too long to answer. "You would be foolish not to be," she says. She goes back to her watching. "Even those of us who are used to this get _les papillons_ in the stomach."

Somehow I doubt it, although the people I've met are really human, too. "Even Colonel Hogan?" I ask.

"Especially Colonel Hogan," she answers. She stops, looks at me. "And me."

I nod.

"But not why you think," she says. "Mine are not for myself."

"Not for you?" I look all around us. I'm not going to let her be the only one doing the work.

_"Non,"_ she replies. "For Colonel Hogan. Robert."

_Ah._

"This operation-- it means so much to him. He will risk the impossible for it-- and for his men."

I see the unspoken rest of that statement in her sudden shift in position. _And it scares me,_ she does not say. _It scares me because one night, he may not return._

"That's why he's here," I venture softly.

_"C'est vrai," _she says. "But sometimes his intensity... it is so strong."

I nod. What am I supposed to say? Of course she's right. It's one thing the television show got spot on correct-- Hogan would do anything and risk anything to stop the Nazis, and protect his operation and his men.

"Are you really from the future?" she asks me suddenly.

"Frighteningly enough, apparently I am," I answer. I think she's changing the subject.

She's not. "Do Robert and I--?" Tiger stops, seems to visibly regroup. She all at once seems very dignified, and very subdued. "Will Robert survive the war?"

I wish I'd known there was going to be a reality check here. I'd have done a lot more study-- like, looking up the _real_ Colonel Robert Hogan at the Archives. But how could I, when I didn't even know until I was already _in_ this mess that there _was _a _real _Colonel Robert Hogan? I know what she's asking: she wants to know if they end up together after the war. I haven't seen them in even the remotest embrace this whole trip back in time, but the electrical charge between them is as unmistakable here as it was in that season one episode where they first met and the sparks positively flew.

I lower my head, not willing to look her in the eye as my once-confident voice comes out as a whisper. "I don't know."

* * *

Translation of Eloi poem:

That good King Dagobert  
Had worn his pants the wrong side  
The great Saint-Eloi told him  
O my king, your majesty  
Is poorly dressed  
You're right, answered the king  
I'll put them back in the good side


	63. Finale, Part 3

**Mary Sue Experiments  
****The Final Chapters**

**by GSJessica, Hexiva, Niente Zero**

**GSJessica:**

Hogan stood over me, impatiently flipping his pistol barrel up and down, repeatedly checking his watch, and watching the bound SS men squirm in their bonds. A couple Underground men also stood over them. I yanked open desk drawers and file cabinets. Goodness, but these Germans could generate huge volumes of paperwork in a short time! Most of it was useless, but the desk with the angled nameplate reading "Herzer" yielded some promising-looking stuff.

"Enough," Hogan ordered tersely, after a glance at his watch. "Time to go." Even at that, he grabbed a couple papers that apparently caught his eye and shoved them in my briefcase. He was the consummate multi-tasker.

Snagging the last few papers within reach, I stood. Hogan and I then moved to the center of the lab and stared at the golden time device, resting in its small pedestal. They'd shone little spotlights on it so it glowed. It was a little thing. It didn't look much like a watch to me, other than it was about the size and shape of a pocketwatch. It was just a small, thick disk with concentric rings (did they turn?) etched with symbols—symbols such as I'd never seen before in style or type (were they buttons? did they push?). There was no obvious way to open it, if it, indeed, had an inside. Any technology (past? future? alien?) that could build a time machine the size of a watch could probably make it purely solid-state, I considered. And, of course, a swastika had been engraved over the center ring. Dang Nazis. Did they even stop to consider that might have an effect on the gadget's operation? More likely they thought if they put their mark on it, it would automatically submit to their superior will. Über alles, after all.

Using the tongs laying by it—apparently how the German scientists manipulated the gadget—I carefully put it into a small, swastika-adorned box nearby. Closing the lid, I also used the tongs to put the box into the briefcase, then put in the tongs. Yeah, I was paranoid of being even close to touching the thing. Snapping the briefcase shut, I nodded to Hogan.

He turned, giving some sort of signal to the Underground men, then ushered me out.

People who've only heard the audio-enhanced, exaggerated gunshots of TV and movies probably wouldn't recognize the unimpressive popping sound low caliber handguns in the distance really make. I did, and flinched, realizing what it meant. It was a weird sensation, to regret deaths taking place while at the same time rather coldly knowing it was necessary and that these SS men most definitely made the world a better place only by leaving it. Still…

Well, nightmares later, doing what had to be done now.

For a moment I feared the cringing, terrified little herd of scientists and technicians were about to be executed, too. But Hogan had another idea in store.

Muttering to me, "Play along," he accepted the pouch that LeBeau handed to him. Shaking out some powder onto his gloved palm, he held his hand up in front of the scientists.

* * *

**Hexiva:**

A curious spectacle was going on before me. Hogan was holding some sort of sand in his palm. After a minute of fast, properly accented German, he blew it at them, then continued speaking. I didn't understand any more of what he said then, save for Hochstetter's name.

The woman who had identified me as 'one of us,' whatever that meant, started to speak. This time, to my surprise, I understood scraps of what she said.

My eyes widened..I was certain I had misheard. Hochstetter, leader? For a moment I wondered if this woman could _really_ be what I had pretended to be. Then I shook my head. They were with Hogan, and whatever else he may be, he isn't a Nazi.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

In German, he addressed them. "This came from the magician from the future. It is a mind control powder." The oldest of the scientists perked up, looking at the handful of dust either with interest, or disbelief. Maybe both. Mind control powder? I thought. Oh, pul-leeze! They were not going to buy this.

Hogan blew the dust at them. The cloud engulfed them, sending them into spasms of coughing. Using a commanding voice, Hogan told them, "You never saw any time travelers. You never saw any time device. This lab never existed. This is what you will tell Major Hochstetter when he asks."

He turned toward me. Improvising on the script, I said to them, "You know I come from the future, though you must say you never saw me. To Hochstetter you will only say, 'Heil Hochstetter', for he will be your Fuehrer in the future when you have won the war and conquered the world." I caught Hexiva's surprised look at that one. She must understand some German. "But if you tell anything else, you'll break the future apart and destroy the Third Reich."

"Do you understand?" Hogan demanded.

Coughing, looking dazed and confused (Did the darned powder really work?! Magic, indeed!), the scientists all meekly agreed. The threat of the Underground coming back and killing them if they talked was, in my opinion, the more effective threat to get them to keep their silence, but this little ploy gave them a mutually reinforced reason to play along.

With the scientists started away from the lab compound, the rest of us also headed out. I saw shadowy figures of the Underground team pulling bodies away from the area surrounding the lab. No trace would remain they'd ever been there.

Hogan had one last item of "over elaborate planning" up his sleeve, however. When Hochstetter did finally arrive here, he'd find nothing—no lab, no guards, not even their bodies, no scientists, nothing but a box set on the ground at the outer checkpoint. It was a lovely touch, I had to admit. It smacked of something he, his fictional 'he', might do in the TV series. Hogan left the box sitting where Hochstetter couldn't miss it. When opened, it would glow brightly (cell phone parts) and sing, in Schultz's voice, that 'Mary Sue' song we'd been sent from the future. Sure, it was kind of dumb, but it would drive Hochstetter absolutely crazy.

Then we retrieved Linda and Tiger—they'd seen no trace of Hochstetter. I couldn't help but wonder what Linda and Tiger had talked about. When we were clear, the Underground faded away into the woods. Hogan and Tiger shared a farewell that was, well… disappointing. Subdued and not at all romantic. Maybe because Linda and I were watching so intently.

Over the crest of the hill, and the valley behind us erupted into flame. The time lab was done, wiped from history.

* * *

**Hexiva:**

I very badly wanted to know what was going on. Who were these people? Hogan I knew, and I could assume the American men were his command, and the German and French people could be the Underground-- I had an embarrassing 'squee' moment there-- but who were the American women?

The entire group of Americans and HH canon characters of assorted nationality started to move away from the lab as I wondered.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said to the woman who had given the odd German speech. She seemed kind enough, by which I mean she didn't seem likely to shoot me if I acted like an idiot. "What is going on? Who are you? How did I get here--I mean, get now?"

Apparently I'd asked the right person, because she explained. It was a strange story, and if I wasn't seeing Colonel Hogan and Nazi Germany with my own eyes, I'd have taken her for a crazy conspiracy theorist.

"So . . .let me get this straight," I said, forgetting my intentions to be scrupulously polite, "There's this secret Nazi device in the American National Archives that's transporting women, _who just happen _to be fans of Hogan's Heroes, into Luft Stalag Thirteen during 1943. Despite the fact that there were only twelve Luft Stalags."

She shrugged. "That's how it seems."

I shut up. Asking irritating questions of people who can kill me and have no pressing reason not to is, in my book, a really bad idea. I was having trouble remembering that.

Behind me, there was a huge noise-- I can think of no other way to explain it-- and heat. I whirled around staring behind. There was nothing of the lab left.

I'm glad I didn't know that that was going to happen when I was next to it.

The rest of the trip was uneventful and explosion-free. If I kept my eyes on the ground, and tried not to think about Nazi patrols or trigger-happy injured Americans, I could almost believe I was home.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

…all arrived back at the camp, wondering all along about what had become of Hochstetter, but thankful for his absence just the same.

Cat and Niente, however… there was the real worry. A message from them was long past due. Baker and Kinchloe continued to take turns standing watches at the radio, running up and down the frequencies, waiting for a message, any message, from London. What could have happened? A bombing raid on London delaying them? Some other problem? Had Byakugan failed to send the hoped-for message forward through time? Perhaps had he been sent somewhere or when else entirely? Maybe the poor kid was busy fighting saber toothed tigers in the Ice Age.

What on earth had become of Cat and Niente?

* * *

**Niente Zero:**

There's only so much crying in the dark you can do, especially when you're thirsty and your lips are already chaffed raw, before plain, undrugged sleep takes over from boredom, fear, anger and the rest. I didn't think I'd sleep, but I didn't have the higher mental faculties left to worry properly, and I shut down. I hoped Olsen was either getting some rest too or working out how to bust on out of there.

When I woke up, how I was feeling was nothing to do with sad or scared or angry. How I was feeling was extremely thirsty and parched mouthed, while paradoxically needing to relieve myself rather urgently, hungry, stuffy nosed from crying myself to sleep, and with a raging headache that was possibly the after effects of whatever crude sedative we'd been doped with, but more probably just plain caffeine withdrawals. My shoulders ached and my wrists were complaining. All told, there was absolutely nothing major wrong with me, and I felt like hell.

There was still little light in the room, but I could see a sliver of brightness under the door, which presumably meant it was morning again. I wasn't doing any great job of keeping track of time. I hoped that our captors would at least provide us with water and a bathroom, but I knew it was possible that they'd keep us in strict privation. From everything I'd read, we were lucky they'd left the light off for us to sleep, rather than disorienting us further by hampering our chances at rest.

I couldn't have been awake for more than a half hour of discomfort before the door was thrown open. The daylight just made my head ache more and I squeezed my eyes closed against it. Suck it up, I told myself. Even money it gets worse before it gets better. I was not precisely a comfort to myself. I forced my eyes open and saw two youngish, fittish men in uniforms - I'm not good with military insignia, I have no idea of their rank or allegiance other than damn well German. They had guns. Again, couldn't possibly say what kind, the kind that makes you good and dead, is the best I can do.

One of the men covered us while the other untied our hands and feet. I stretched my arms out. Burn. Ow. The burn of blood flowing back into where the ropes had been cutting, and a much nicer burn of stretching those knotted shoulders.

"Come." One of them said. Olsen and I got to our feet. That was fun. (THAT was sarcasm.) I contemplated causing a distraction so he'd have a shot at escaping, and dismissed the thought almost immediately. Stupid. Sure, there were just two of them here, but we hadn't seen anything of the layout of the place, and we were both sort of wobbly. Maybe when we got outside, if the coast looked clear, I'd risk something. 'Something', in this case, I envisioned being a wild groin kick to one of the guards. That'd get their attention.

Of course, I did no such thing when we got outside. I didn't get the chance, they had us both covered far too well. We were hustled to another building, and hallelujah, shown, with some contempt from the guards, that there was a bathroom. Olsen was gentleman enough to suggest I go first. All I can say is I'm glad I'd gone with eye-pencil stocking seams rather than trying to dig up nylons in London, because I was kind of fumble fingered. I took my time and stretched things out a bit more. There was a small mirror on the wall and I caught a good look at myself. I looked a fright. My hair was a wild halo, my eyes were red and my face pale and blotchy. Not that I minded. Better than being "attractive enough" or whatever Biedenbender said. Better to be human cattle to these men than- a woman.

There was water, in a dirty mug on the table, and coarse, stale bread waiting when I was done. Even having armed men stare at me couldn't suppress my violent appetite. I drank my mug of water and ate fully half of the bread before Olsen reappeared for his share. I hoped to god they were treating Cat better, if she was supposed to be the special guest star in their production.


	64. Finale, Part 4

**Mary Sue Experiments  
The Final Chapters**

by GSJessica, Cat, Hexiva

**GSJessica:**

Late though the hour was, and long as the day had been, I sat down to the map table and started to dig through the time scientists' paperwork. Sergeant Kinchloe sat down with me to help. Our combined fluency in German proved inadequate to the task and Kinch brought out a huge German-English dictionary. Even with that there were words we simply could not decipher. Every specialty has its own particular vocabulary and even had these physicists' writing been in English we still would not have understood the meanings of all the words.

Newkirk took several photographs of the time device which Carter processed, providing large blowups of the markings for us to use so the dangerous object itself could be tucked away, safe from accidental touch, in its box set aside in an alcove.

As we dredged each bit of information from the Germans' paperwork, we translated it to Linda, Tuttle, and Hexiva. Jake rested on a cot nearby, looking rather pale. Sometimes she participated, sometimes dozed. Poor IronAmerica still slept peacefully—instead of knockout drops, LeBeau brought us a pot of painfully strong coffee. Everyone—our people and Hogan's men—studied the device's markings with Kinchloe and I, all trying to find that moment of inspiration or revelation that would unlock the secret of how to reset the blasted gadget and return us home.

Hogan came and went, sometimes translating and explaining technical words for us we had been unable to figure out, showing, as had his character on the television show, that eerie 'knows too much' side of him. Whatever else he was, for good or ill, he was nothing short of brilliant in many, many ways.

As the night wore on, Baker suddenly sat up sharply at the radio. Pressing the headset tighter to his ear, he scribbled rapidly. He handed the message, whatever it was, to Kinchloe who, despite our barrage of questions about Cat, Niente, and Byakugan's message, left without a word of explanation to present the message to Colonel Hogan.

We knew that's what he'd done for a few minutes later, Hogan appeared in the tunnel, holding the blue message paper and wearing a grim expression.

"London informs me your _friends_," he hit that word hard, "after retrieving something from the Bank of London, have helped General Biedenbender escape from Allied custody, and have fled England with him in a plane back to Germany."

_General Biedenbender?!_ It was an irrepressible 'squee' moment, yet we all managed to repress it. Newkirk moved swiftly behind me and took the gun I'd taken from my waistband and set on the bench beside me.

* * *

**Cat:**

Needless to say, I got very little sleep. I was worried that Hochstetter and Biedenbender would come back to the room and besides, every time I closed my eyes, the chair would be doing roll arounds. Of course there were also bouts of me "worshiping at the porcelain altar." The guards did let me go to the bathroom just a few steps down the hall after figuring out it was either the bathroom or on them. Door still open of course, but at that point I really didn't care. I hadn't had anything to eat that day except for the pickles to relieve my earlier hangover, so by morning I was just going through the motions. I was feeling absolutely miserable; two hangovers in a row? I was so ready to take the pledge.

Early morning, Hochstetter and Biedenbender came by my room with the clothes I was going to wear and breakfast for me. Sadistic bastards. I rushed out to visit my old friend of the night and just had dry heaves.

As I came back into the room, Biedenbender remarked, "She'll need a hat with a veil."

Insulting, sadistical bastard. If he didn't want me as his _Freudin_, He should have thought of thought of that in the first place. He must have read my thoughts on my face as he said "Go wash your face and look in the mirror."

I went back to the bathroom and looked. My eyes were red with dark circles under them; and was that a mouse I was getting under the right one? _Where did that come from? OH YEAH, when the piece of drainpipe hit me. Oooo maybe I shouldn't have been drinking after getting conked on the head…_ Nice time to think of that.

"Make up should help." I said, wondering how much I would need to trowel on.

"The _Führer_ does not like women to wear make-up," remarked Hochstetter.

I looked at him, "Is he going to be there? No? Then deal with it." _Oh that's nice Cat, poke the crazies some more. That's one way to get everyone out of here safely. NOT!_

"Fraulein Kurtz will be able to lend her some." Biedenbender told Hochstetter who looked very surprised. I guess he never knew Fraulein Kurtz, whoever she was, wore makeup. The general then turned to me, "Get freshened up and change into these clothes. We will be leaving shortly."

_Jawohl, mein General…Mein? Ewww _

So I did a quick wash in the bathroom, not wanting to take off anything since the door was open. Lucky for me, Biedenbender made sure that while everyone knew where I was, no one was actually looking in at me. That man was driving me mad and not in a good way. I couldn't figure him out: was he a letch, gentleman or what? What exactly was his game? Maybe that was another question I didn't want an answer to.

I must say, the outfit was gorgeous. It was a very simple, long sleeved, scooped neck, forest green woolen dress which zipped up the side with a matching coat. It went very well with my coloring and light reddish brown hair. It definitely brought out the green in my eyes. Considering the colors the one eye was turning, this may not have been such a good idea. While putting the dress on, I noticed it wasn't new and tried hard not to think of where they might have gotten it in such a quick fashion. Luckily I was able to keep my own shoes. Stepping into someone else's shoes in these circumstances would be tempting fate, I think.

"What is taking you so long?" Hochstetter was obviously getting impatient.

"I'm having a problem with the zipper," I yelled back. I didn't want to tell them, but it was the truth. Side zippers can be hell to zip up on your own, although back zips are still the worst.

"Here, I'll do it" I could hear Hochstetter begin moving toward me, but the general got there first.

"There," he said after zipping me up. I really didn't like the close proximity. "You are almost finished. Here is Fraulein Kurtz' make up. Please hurry, the major is getting impatient."

Taking the bag with me to the mirror, I tried to cover the dark circles and my "mouse." The hat with the demi veil did the trick, however. My hair was cut short into a bob, but in London and in Germany, since I didn't have my straightening iron or blow dryer, it had turned quite curly. I was able to brush it into some semblance of a 40s 'do even though the _Führer_ at this time preferred women to have long hair and to wear it in braids. That fact actually had me enjoying my short hair even more. Stepping out from the bathroom I asked, "well?"

Apparently I did quite well, as both looks were appreciative. Not really a good thing I was thinking.

Hochstetter apparently wasn't completely satisfied with the look as he gave me a red fox "thing" to wear. I know they wore stoles, but this one wasn't just the skin. It was made up of at least two skins and still had the heads. They were "playfully" appearing to be biting the others tail. It was fastened by one of the heads having a clip to the other's tail holding it together, so you could wear it casually around your shoulders. It looked quite fashionable, but I had long since dropped wanting to wear dead animals. Especially when it still had the heads attached. Too "2 Million Years BC" for me.

Evidently, I was to appear to be benefiting from the relationship quite well.

Finally satisfied, Hochstetter and Biedenbender decided we could now leave. Hochstetter would travel with Olsen and Niente in one car and I would be with the general in the other. Great. Close quarters. I saw Niente and Olsen getting in the car but didn't get a chance to speak to them. Without my glasses, I also couldn't see what kind of shape either was in also.

* * *

**Hexvia:**

After our group had gotten into the tunnels-- that ladder was longer than it had seemed when I'd gone _up _it-- there was some consternation about quite a lot of paper. The woman who'd explained things to me-- GSjessica, she said her username was-- kept reading things out loud. I didn't understand any of it, partly because after the first few minutes I was staring at the walls and trying to think of a book to think about. All that sprang to mind was that I had just lost my beautiful new copy of _Outcast_ before I'd even finished it. I couldn't picture myself asking my parents for another one because a crazy Nazi officer had confiscated it.

I was still trying to distract myself when Colonel Hogan walked in and, staring at GSjessica, delivered the bad news.

"London informs me your _friends,_ after retrieving something from the Bank of London, have helped General Biedenbender escape from Allied custody, and have fled England with him in a plane back to Germany. Sergeant Olsen, they tell me, is undoubtedly a double agent working for the Nazis, too. And they're suspicious that me and my entire organization has been compromised."

My eyebrows shot up. So Biedenbender, the man who'd shot Hogan down, was a player in this, too? And who were GSjessica's friends? And what was in the Bank of London that everyone else seemed to know about?

As I watched, to my horror, Newkirk disarmed GSjessica. If she, who had given them no reason to distrust her, wasn't trusted with a weapon, what would I be to them?

I felt ill.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

"Sergeant Olsen, they tell me," Hogan went on, "is undoubtedly a double agent working for the Nazis, too."

Olsen? My 'son'? Never!

Cat and Niente? I immediately thought it was utter rubbish. Like the mess with Hexiva-the-collaborator, or IronAmerica early on threatening to go to the Germans—heck, even I had thought about it—this was just a misunderstanding.

But, then, I considered that none of us really knew Cat and Niente too well, online or off, so maybe they had been Gestapo plants all along…

"And they're suspicious that me and my entire organization has been compromised," Hogan concluded, crumpling the note. He let out a long, tired sigh that pretty much summed up the mood on the entire assemblage.

Oh, my God! This spy business was insane with its tangled web of endless mistrusts. How on earth did Hogan ever decide who to believe, who to trust?

He answered that question almost instantly. "Well," he said wearily, "I don't know how Biedenbender got hold of Olsen, Cat, and Niente, but we have to find them, and get the message they picked up." He shook his head, seeming for a moment overwhelmed. I think we all understood that. "And we have to silence Biedenbender. He knows everything about our operation. And…" he let the pause speak for itself, "whoever else is working with him." Cat? Niente? Olsen?

"How will we find them?" one of us asked. "And General Biedenbender?"

"We won't have to find him," Hogan said dully. "He'll be on his way here."

…why Hochstetter never made it to the lab. I closed my eyes and groaned.


	65. Finale, Part 5

**Mary Sue Experiments  
The Final Chapters**

**by Niente Zero, Cat**

**Niente Zero:**

Soon after this breakfast of sorts, Olsen and I were hustled outside again. Olsen's hands were re-tied, in front of him so he could sit comfortably I guess, I was left as I was. We saw Cat briefly, looking like a million dollars in this dump, which made my gut twinge with concern. Not good. Olsen was put in the front seat of a big black staff car, next to the driver. I was in the back seat with- and Olsen's muttered imprecation confirmed it - Major Wolfgang Hochstetter. Hochstetter restated for Olsen that if he tried anything, Cat and I would get it. He had an ugly looking black revolver to reinforce that.

I noted that I was not similarly warned. No, my hands were untied and I was unthreatened except as a hostage. They had thoroughly and entirely discounted me. Which was probably not surprising, but made that killing rage, that red protective haze, rise right back up in my chest. Like hell I couldn't get us out of here - or at least Olsen, damn it. I was not so worried that they would flat out shoot Cat if I tried anything. They needed her for some plot, they'd taken a lot of care in getting her dolled up. She'd have more time. But I was damned if I was going to sit there like a rag doll and let them use me to control the other two.

I plotted as we drove through winding country roads. One good sharp corner was all I needed. Okay, as plans go, mine was pathetic, but all I was trying to buy was a chance for Olsen to make a break for it. On the assumption that if he got loose he'd be able to take care of making it back to warn Hogan that something was going down.

We were driving through a shady stand of trees that seemed to provide good cover for anyone fleeing on foot when my chance came. The car with Cat was some way ahead of us, and we took a bend sharply. I let myself slide across the seat as if by accident and slam into Hochstetter. My hand was already reaching out and pushing his hand with the gun in it over, away from me, bending the wrist back sharply, my other hand shooting out to wrench it away, forcing it backwards against the weakest part of his grip between thumb and finger. I got it before he had time to react, but I couldn't hold onto it, and it fell to the floor. I'm not sure I could have shot him anyway. I should have, given the chance. I should have, but I'm not a killer.

I rolled my body to slam into the driver's seat. The driver was already distracted by our kerfuffle in the back seat. "Olsen!" I said. "Go already." as if he should be following my brilliant plan. He looked at me and reached for the door handle. He was all set to jump out of a moving car - bear in mind this was mere seconds of action - when Hochstetter got his hand up around my throat. Olsen froze. Guess that meant he wasn't going without me. Shucks.

I reached up to slap Hochstetter's hand away, as my self-defense instructor taught us, but I couldn't get leverage and it didn't take much squeezing for me to lose the impetus to move, everything graying over into a sort of breathless fog. Tunnel vision, the edge of blacking out, then Hochstetter pushed me away and got his gun back off the floor.

"That was very stupid." he said. He instructed the driver in German, presumably telling him to pull over, because we pulled up to the side of the road.

"Out." Hochstetter ordered me. I slid out of the car and he came around from his side quickly, covering me with the gun. We'd been warned about what would happen if we tried to escape, and I was sure this was it. I couldn't be sanguine about it being quick- where there's life there's hope, and not much left of that after a bullet to the head.

The driver got Olsen out, too, and Hochstetter moved so his gun covered both of us.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant Olsen." I said. I meant it, too. I didn't mean to get him killed.

"That's all right, Miss Nenty." he said. It sounded like he understood what I'd been trying to say.

Hochstetter laughed, one sharp bark, then said something else to the driver. Apparently I was worrying prematurely. Hochstetter stood back and the driver, a burly blond lad, worked me over. Olsen protested loudly, and got clocked on the chin with Hochstetter's gun for his troubles. Damn, but at least he wasn't killed. The driver stuck to the body - Hochstetter as much as said that we didn't want to alarm Cat, although I thought the bruise around my throat might tip her off anyway. I'll spare you the details, but I got back in the car, my hands tied this time, sorer and tireder than before. And decidedly short of breath. I huddled over my side of the car, embarrassed by how shaky I felt. We sped off then, making up for the time they'd wasted, I guess. Hochstetter never took his gun off me, all the way to the town near Stalag 13.

* * *

**Cat:**

Actually the whole trip wasn't the wrestling match I had envisioned. He stayed on his side of the car and I stayed on mine. I guess he had imbibed a bit more than he thought last night, although I didn't see any signs of the suffering I had.

Once in the car, Biedenbender offered me some water from a flask he had with him. "Here, it'll help you."

I greatly needed a drink (both of water and alcohol, but considering my last night close call, I really only wanted water) but was afraid of what might be in it. He chuckled at my discomfort and while shaking his head, poured the water out in a cup attached to the flask and drank. "See, nothing but water."

My hands shook so much I was surprised I was able to get any in my mouth. Nerves and hangover, double whammy. After finishing it, I handed the cup back.

"You are not very trustful are you? We are not all monsters. I am not even a party member." It seemed he wanted to talk. Okay, as long as he's talking, I'm probably safe. "I have a family I wish to protect. Your Hogan caused me many problems. In my country's eyes I have become a traitor." He stopped and looked at me.

Oh. I guess this is to be a dialogue. Can I just make sympathetic noises or do I truly have to contribute? My stomach and head vote for the sympathetic noises. I tried to look interested.

"My eldest son was ordered to volunteer for the Russian front, nobody has heard from him in two months. My daughter, a widow, has been sent to Dachau and my grandchildren have been fostered out to homes. While I have been able to get my daughter released, I don't know who has my grandchildren."

Oh God, I have heard about this happening, I couldn't help myself, I asked, "How old is your daughter?"

"Twenty-five-years-old."

Not good. The Lord knows what she must have suffered before being released. Especially being young; if she was pretty… "And your grandchildren?"

"The eldest, Klaus, is 6, the girl, Brigitte..Gitte is 5, and the youngest, Dieter, is 3."

"I'm sorry." I was sorry, not only for his family, but the many other people who had family members taken away.

Not really hearing me, but the urge to continue talking must have been irrepressible, he continued, "My youngest, Karl, has a good commander. He was able to save at least one of my children. Karl is a lieutenant in the Luftwaffe. He has been able to keep his position."

What did I say earlier about not wanting to know about families? But, my stupid mouth seeing another hole in the fence raced off without my brain, "What about your wife?" I know in the show, he went to his plane with Hilda, but it didn't mean there wasn't a wife around. Heck, we even saw Burkhalter's wife and he "messed around." Even Shultz married and with 5 children, was a "bit of a lad."

"She died a few years ago. Just before I became involved with Colonel Hogan in fact. In that instance, I should be glad that he existed. It gave me something to concentrate on when she was gone."

"Oh. The war?" I didn't know how to finish that. I mean what am I to say if she died in a bombing by Allied fighters?

But, he just laughed. This time there was no humour behind it. "The war does not control everything. It's odd how many people assume, if they see someone hurt, or hear someone has died, they automatically assume it's the war. Forgetting that life, real life, regular life still goes on. No, it wasn't the war. She had the _Krebs_…cancer. I didn't know. She didn't let me know until too late."

Oh brother. I hope he's lying. I'm beginning to feel sorry for him. I'm beginning to actually like him. He's the enemy, he hasn't actually done anything to me but kiss me, but I'm … I… Lord, I don't know what to do. (Note: that by this time any mention of God or the Lord has not been blasphemy. I was really and truly praying for some sort of guidance or comfort. Not that any was coming, I guess I was still hoping it would be in one of those mysterious ways.)

He handed me another drink, I looked into it but he said, "still water."

"Thank you."

"And you? Do you have family; a husband waiting for you to go home to?" well, after last night aren't you asking a little late? Or is this an interrogation? Be friendly and get the information?

"Just three dogs and a bird." And a very active work and social life, thank you very much.

"ah."

Well, since we're in a talking mood, why not get some answers. "Why didn't you defect while in England instead of continuing to help Germany?"

He looked surprised that I would ask that question. "Germany is my country. No matter what I may think of its leader, I'm still a loyal officer."

"Even if your leader has made your country break its trust with its citizens? People are dying only for looking different from the ideal." Oh great, now I'm discussing politics and theology. Wish one of the others were here. Jessica or Linda would be able to put him in his place. At this point I think even IronAmerica would be better than me for all her youth, nope strike that, do not want anyone that young in this position. I still added, "An ideal that none of its leaders fit, by the way."

"Do you have any idea what Germany was like before the war?" Biedenbender looked out the window seeming to look at the passing scenery, but I knew he didn't really see it, "We had been badly beaten. The Treaty of Versailles ruined us. Our economy was collapsed, many young men had now returned from the Great War with no training in civilian life. We saw the communists and socialists as an added threat to us. Hitler was supposed to be a temporary solution." Here was again a humourless laugh. "We thought we could control him and his followers. We didn't even think he would be elected. There were at least 13 other candidates, Hitler received the most votes, he never receive a majority until later. We thought he would take care of the rabble in the streets, clean up the problem, and then we could take care of him."

"Those who would give up some of their liberty in order to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." The thought had just popped into my head.

"Who did you just quote?" he asked, looking at me.

"I think it was Benjamin Franklin-1776." I wasn't sure if he really said that or it was just in the play 1776.

"Ah yes, a wise man. Too bad we didn't pay attention at the time." With that, he turned back to the window.

Well, it seemed dialogue time had ended. Maybe he was suffering a bit of a hangover. I hoped so.

It was cold in the car, and I tried to curl up under my coat. My feet unfortunately had touched him. He reached down absent mindedly to move them, "My God, your feet are like ice!"

Yes, I know, please release them. But I said, "I'm trying to get them covered."

"Here, use my coat it's larger." He then proceeded to remove his coat and place it on me. Okay, nice gesture, but why? It was then I realized; he was seducing me. I mean he was going at it slowly, not just a quick pounce. Why would a man who had been in prison for who knows how long take the time for seduction? Especially someone already in his power. You'd think he would want to get down to "business" right away. Then it struck me: the man was definitely not living on starvation rations while in England, if you get my drift. He had been in very close contact, as you will, with a woman. One of his contacts who were helping him was female! I would love to say it was Sgt. Sarah because she was the rat who turned Niente and me in, but, I really didn't think so. She was too much gung ho for Britain. I had to let Hogan know, it was something London should know.

Okay, things to make sure Hogan knew: There would be an enemy agent going to Westminster Abbey to look for the Green Man and the note from Eloi. The agent would probably be female or at least one of the enemy agents working for Biedenbender in England was female. Holy Moses, Biedenbender came into the room not too long after Hochstetter… If he was really thought to be a defector and landed, he would have been locked up or at least debriefed. Debriefings take hours. He's been in constant contact with someone in Germany. Hochstetter? Lordy how big was this spy ring? Okay, make sure Hogan knew Biedenbender hadn't been debriefed. Cool. Now I could rest. Nope, I'm about to throw up again.

Biedenbender looked over at me and ordered, "Smile."

What? SMILE?

"It helps with the reflexes. A little trick I learned in my wilder youth." He explained not too unkindly.

I must have looked like a complete fool, but I smiled ear to ear. Surprisingly it did help. Good to know, although I had already taken the pledge of no more drinking.


	66. Finale, Part 6

**Mary Sue Experiments  
****The Final Chapters**

**by Jake, GSJessica, Cat, Niente Zero**

**Jake:**

Once we were safely back at camp, I collapsed onto a cot while Jessica and Kinch worked at translating the papers, dozing on and off as I kept half an ear on the proceedings. The technical jargon eluded both of them, and Col. Hogan showed his true genius here, translating and deciphering a fair bit of it.

Geez. And they used to call _me_ a walking encyclopedia; this guy makes me look like a piker.

When we finally got word on our " MIAs", it wasn't good. General Biedenbender had escaped, and London was convinced that Cat, Niente, and Olsen had helped them. Hearing that he was on his way here brought me back to full awareness, the dizziness faded enough that my brain was firing on all cylinders again, with only an occasional miss. Even Iron America was awake now.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

Eventually it was too much and I had to take a break. I hadn't slept in over a day. Night was over… I think. In this subterranean hellhole (only the TV series laugh track could find humor in this dank place) it was impossible to tell day from night. My head was positively swimming with technical data in two different languages, theories, ideas, and the strange symbols etched on the device. All of us had thrown out our theories—guesses, really, mostly from science fiction books and movies, plus the odd physics class or two—about how time travel, and the device, might work. It all got us nowhere, which was exactly as far as the Nazi scientists had gotten, too. My hope their paperwork would give us some solid information was turning out to be a bust. They had been playing look-busy with impressive wordy reports to dazzle their bosses in Berlin. Distilled down, they didn't know a darned thing. We were on our own to figure out what some of the brightest physicists in Germany had failed to figure out.

Mary Sue powers don't fail me now! But, of course, they did. Fail, that is.

Then, too, the overwhelming worry about Cat, Niente, Olsen, and the inevitable arrival of Biedenbender and Hochstetter was always niggling. Somehow Hogan held out hope that this whole mess could be pulled out of the dumper. As always, I think his primary intent was to preserve his operation and its critical position here in the middle of Germany. His hoard of misfit time travelers being returned where we belonged was a secondary concern, though I no longer feared he'd outright exterminate us. But I believed, too, that he was still torn and mistrusting of us, especially given the info from London about Niente and Cat helping Biedenbender escape.

Of Olsen… I wasn't sure. My own impression was that Hogan had somehow acquired Olsen, with a dubious background, here in Germany, rather than through the usual military channels and service. It was very possible that London had a massive question mark beside Olsen in their files and considered it quite likely he'd been a double agent all the way around.

What did Hogan think of the rest of us? I pondered that as I stumbled away down a tunnel branch looking for a quiet corner to crash and sleep for a little while. Did he think we were all Gestapo plants in some huge charade to trap him? Come on. He had to realize at least some of us were genuinely from the future—a _non-Nazi_ future, though Hexiva had thrown another twist of doubt in the mix with her tale, enhanced by Linda and I with our "Heil Hochstetter" shtick.

But could the Nazis have slipped one ringer in on us?

Cat had hit it off with Olsen awfully well from the start. Could they be…?

No. I didn't really know Cat, but I'd spent two months living with Olsen, spending day and night with him. Going out into Hammelburg with him. Meeting the people he knew…

His Gestapo buddies.

I shook my head, trying to clear it. Hogan's hardest role wasn't the sabotage or espionage, I decided. It was dealing with the constant twist and play of trust versus reality of the spy business; never knowing who to trust, or who might know something compromising. The tension must have been relentless, year after year.

I found a side-room to the tunnel—I think the one in which Niente had spent time after she first arrived, darning socks. It turned out to be the room they stored our twenty-first century clothing and gear. I pulled some coats into a nest, snuggling down into it with another coat over me, my head pillowed on some purses.

I must have dozed for my mind roamed in a jumbled stream of images. The golden device with its incomprehensible symbols spun through my mind. Always it was Hochstetter turning the wheels of the device, but I couldn't quite see how he made the concentric rings turn. But every turn he made sent the flames of hell rising up to swallow us, and the world. Hey! No symbolism there, huh?

Turning over, I tried to get whatever was poking me readjusted. I pulled out a wallet from one of my purse-pillows, smiling as I pulled out the drivers license. This I'd have to show Hogan. It would settle a few questions of loyalty, I hoped.

Then I dug into one of the coat pockets and pulled out a gadget with strange symbols etched on a ring. With a smile, I realized this gadget was not another time travel device but was, in fact, an Ipod Shuffle—a mundane music gadget the kids in 2008 used. I'd never seen one in person (I only recently upgraded from cassettes to CDs for music), but the Ipod seemed fairly intuitive. Playing with the controls, I soon had it producing music… if it could be called "music". I shut the thing off again and was about to tuck it away when I found myself staring at it intently. My heart started to pound.

I had it.

The time travel device. I understood it.

The drivers license stuffed into my pocket, forgotten, I took the Ipod Shuffle and ran back through the maze of tunnels to the radio room. Hogan stood there, staring at a photo of the device, rubbing his temple as one of our people—IronAmerica, maybe—talked about Star Trek's various time travel scenarios with sketchy ideas of their underlying physics' theories.

"I figured it out," I said, a bit breathlessly, trying to get all my words out at once. "This—" I held up the Ipod, then pointed to the photo. "—the physics and theories and stuff don't matter. It's not a Cray Mainframe," I explained, not sure when the Cray Mainframe was invented, but didn't care. "It's an Ipod." Seeing the puzzled expressions, and Hogan's intense questioning look, I expanded my admittedly incoherent explanation. "It's an end-user device. It's meant to be used by an ordinary person. We don't need to know how or why it works. We don't need the theory or technology behind it. Just like with the Ipod. We only need to know which button to push."

There were expressions and sounds of impressed understanding, until some spoilsport just had to throw out the inevitable next question: "So which button do we push?"

Yeah. Well. I'd just thought of this notion. I hadn't actually worked that part out. But I did point out we had an advantage the Germans hadn't had in deciphering the gadgets operation. We had photos of its settings taken an various points in its time and use.

This caused a flurry of activity as cell phones with cameras were brought out and made to display all the photos we'd been covertly snapping, both in the Archives in 2008, and here since we arrived. Newkirk brought out a camera and took careful photos off the tiny screens, which Carter set about blowing up. IronAmerica, it turned out, had been the one who figured out how to charge our cell phone batteries, using the hand-crank generator of Kinchloe's radio setup. She'd had a lot of time down in these tunnels, I guess.

Anyhow, photos were taken and processed. It amused and intrigued me, and the others, to see those photos we'd found in the Archives box being given their first reality of existence here and now. Time coming into a circle. Someone, somehow, would survive to put those photos into the National Archives in Washington, D.C. It was a comforting thought… until I considered that maybe our forces had gotten them from captured Gestapo files.

Shoving that horrid thought aside, we all got down to work again with renewed energy, comparing the photos with the time gadget's various settings of it symbols. We had the clues. We just needed to put them together. We had a chance.

* * *

**Cat:**

I fell asleep for a short time; too soon Biedenbender was waking me up. "We are almost at the Gasthaus. Please try and look presentable."

Wha? Gasthaus? Why are we going to a Gasthaus? It had better be for something to eat… I don't want to think that it was for anything else. Sitting up I handed him back his coat and straightened my hat and smoothed my outfit. I looked into my purse they gave me for a mirror, and found the note supposedly from Hogan and Hogan's handkerchief. Someone must have found the handkerchief in my suit pocket and thought it was mine, since it looked harmless they gave it back to me; I kept it like a talisman right now. Too bad, no note from Eloi. Niente must have that.

It was a cute little inn, surrounded by shady trees. Quite like the favorite inn we used to stay at when we were visiting in Bavaria. Except that Gasthaus wasn't over run with SS and Gestapo. They definitely cost the inn some Michelin stars.

We stopped at the front door and the driver got out and opened the door for us. The general went out first and offered his hand to help me out of the car. I guess this was to be a dress rehearsal then. I stepped out and looked for the car with Niente and Olsen. They hadn't arrived yet. Uh oh. The general didn't look too happy either to see they weren't there. Quickly shepherding me into the inn, he had the driver show me to a room, while he hung back to talk to some officer. The driver, a true blond Aryan type, didn't seem too happy being my escort, but, at least he showed me into a small charmingly airy room and asked me rather curtly if I needed anything. Needed? Yeah, I needed to be home, I needed to know if Niente and Olsen were safe; I needed to know what exactly Biedenbender and Hochstetter were planning for Hogan and his men; all that I needed. But, I said I wished some water, pickles and crackers. I needed something to fortify me for what was coming at the Stalag. I was surprised I was actually served them!

* * *

**Niente Zero:**

"We will stop here." he said. "Sergeant Olsen shall not yet have a reunion with his fellow prisoners."

I saw the car Cat had been in pulled up in front of a small hotel or guesthouse or something of the sort. Hochstetter slid over behind me so that we got out of the same door of the car, and anyone seeing us would not have seen the gun.

The guesthouse was clean and relatively prosperous looking, but there were no staff to be seen, only more uniformed men. I guess it'd been taken over for the time being. Hochstetter pushed me ahead of him up some stairs to a corridor, then into a cozy little room. Cat and her contingent of hostiles were there already.

Cat said something to Biedenbender, and then he put on a show with her as the romantic lead. Guh. Touching her face, and she kissed his hand. I'd already played my "heroic and pointless gestures" card for the day, which was probably a good thing for our continued survival, because that made me want to do bad things to Biedenbender, and we were in no position to make good on that kind of gut-twisting fury. Really, the only thing was to suck it up and hope to hell someone else had a plan.

Cat ran over to us and hugged me. Ow. And she smelled of pickles. If there was one thing I needed to put a cap on a truly horrible day, it was that nauseating vinegar and dill scent. It almost distracted me from her whispered message, which I needed to memorize to repeat verbatim to Hogan, because I sure as heck couldn't make sense of it without caffeinated input sometime in the next century. I don't know what she said to Olsen. At some point it dawned on me that I had never told her I still had the note we'd picked up from Gringotts. I wasn't taking chances on saying anything or trying to get it out of my bra (well, where would you hide it?) or anything like that with the Germans around. It'd have to be dealt with later, if any of us had a later.

By then, Cat was leaving, and I'd have worried about her, but I was just too beat. As soon as it became clear that Olsen and I were to stay in the room, Olsen positively shepherded me into a plump armchair and demanded that one of the guards bring us water. I can only imagine that my little stunt in the car put me back on the side of the angels in his book. It didn't take much more than the comfort of the chair and the relief of a tumbler of plain water for me to drift into a sort of reverie. Waiting. I was all out of action, but if something did happen, I wanted to be damned sure I had the energy to go with it.

* * *

**Cat:**

I was finishing the last pickle when Biedenbender finally came in to announce that Hochstetter had arrived with Niente and Olsen. Finally. Hochstetter entered the room with Niente and Olsen, "Sergeant Olsen and Fraulein Niente will be staying here, while we are visiting Colonel Hogan at Stalag 13. I will be in constant contact with my men here, don't worry. Any one of you, as you say, "acts up," will sign the death certificate of the other two."

Olsen and Niente both looked pale and I thought Olsen's chin looked a bit discolored. That's about all I could tell from where I was sitting and without my glasses.

"I wish to see if they are unhurt."

The general lightly grabbed my chin and with the ball of his thumb lightly traced my lower lip while he thought. I took it to mean this truly was going to be a full dress rehearsal; I grabbed it lightly with my teeth and then kissed it._ Please, I'm being a good girl, I'm playing loving girlfriend in front of the prisoners…Please, let me see them!_

Finally he nodded approval, "How can I deny you anything, my dear Katzchen?"

Hochstetter, of course, was upset, but, I guess to make sure I would play along; he knew I needed to see Niente and Olsen were safe. "Of course, Fraulein," he sneered. Couldn't the man just talk conversationally?

I quickly ran to Niente, and hugged her ignoring her wincing, and in the midst of murmuring sympathetic noises, I quickly whispered: "Tell Hogan Biedenbender wasn't debriefed and the double agent will be looking for the Green Man in Westminster Abbey." Hopefully she got that even if she didn't understand. The messages had to be short and quick. I saw the marks on her throat and I didn't want to think about what had happened on the road. If I did, I know I wouldn't be able to continue the charade and lose whatever chances anyone of us had of getting out of this mess.

The hug with Olsen was: "Tell Hogan, Biedenbender has been slaked in London."

Okay, maybe I should have reversed who got which message, but I would like to see how well you do being sent back in time, overtired, and overstressed, with a double hangover. I was lucky I was actually functioning on some level of competency and was able to tell them anything.

After that, it was time for Biedenbender and me to get into the car, I was wondering what we were waiting for until I realized: Hochstetter would be joining us in the car. Oh god, in spite of the pickles I was going to be sick again until I remembered to smile. Heaven knows what Hochstetter thought getting in next to me and I've got a big grin on my face. Most likely that I'd gone mad. He did seem slightly bewildered as he told me I was not to let on to Hogan that I knew him. Him meaning Hogan. _Hochstetter unsettled. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? No matter, keep on grinning Cat. Look what it did for the Cheshire cat…_

* * *

**GSJessica:**

"War party, Colonel!" a voice shouted down from the tunnel entrance. "SS guards, a Luftwaffe general, and a girl. She's all over the general. Must be his girlfriend" A pause while a muted voice came from the barracks above. Then the voice called down, "Colonel, we think it's Cat."

Even this deep down in the tunnel we could hear the roll call alarm begin to blare. Except it was too early for roll call.

It was a lesson in courage to see Hogan and his men unhesitatingly go up to face their fates.


	67. Finale, Part 7

**Mary Sue Experiments  
****The Final Chapters**

by GSJessica, Jake, Cat, IronAmerica

**GSJessica:**

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

Then it was Everything At Once.

As Hogan's men below scrambled up, the voice from above called down again, this time with a slight edge of panic in the tone.

"Colonel! It's General Biedenbender with Cat!"

Hogan blanched only slightly. He'd known from the first call from above who that Luftwaffe general was—the one who could unquestionably breach his organization and cost the lives of both him and his men.

Another shout. "And Hochstetter is hot on his heels. With SS. Lots of them."

So… here it was. This, in living technicolor nightmare, was the moment so many of us had written about in our stories. Here was the moment the Germans broke Hogan's clandestine organization. They were all about to be arrested—without shadow of doubt—and then, ultimately, executed.

And yet they continued to scramble up the ladder, each man in turn, to play it all out to the end. The deadly end.

The TV series had just ended, hadn't it? We never knew what happened after Episode 168 faded to black. Even more so, in this real world Stalag 13, we didn't know why this prison camp, and all its occupants, had been erased from official history.

We were about to find out, I was afraid. Would the rest of us be erased with it?

* * *

**Jake:**

I don't know about anyone else, but when roll call sounded right after somebody called a "war party" alert, I nearly freaked. Hochstetter had been after Hogan for years; with Biedenbender's knowledge of the operation, he had his proof--although the general didn't know about the tunnels. They'd take Hogan and his men away in their car/truck/whatever vehicle they had come in--and an idea presented itself. Near the radio I found a soldering kit and called. "Somebody find me some nails!" I was sure they had to have some squirreled away down here somewhere.

Sure enough, one of the girls found a rusty can of ten-penny nails, which I began to solder together. "Caltrops," I answered the puzzled looks. "There's that real narrow section of road just past the tunnel exit; seed the road with 'em. Once the lead vehicle is disabled, any that might be following won't be able to turn around."

* * *

**Cat:**

It was eerie going through the front gates. They seemed taller than in the show; seeming to close in on you after they shut. You noticed the guards with guns right off. There were some prisoners out in the yard, but, of course, I couldn't see who they were. Colonel Klink had come out to see who the new guests were. He did seem surprised to see Biedenbender and a little put off to see Hochstetter. He was more surprised when I came out of the car, still smiling like a darn fool.

"Colonel Klink. The general and I are traveling to Berlin and thought we could stop and rest to let Fraulein Kraus recuperate from her journey," Major Hochstetter in his most annoyingly, cloyingly way. Caught most of that in German. Yeah, like he really cares about me.

"General Biedenbender?" Poor Klink looked totally confused. Why was a disgraced general traveling with a Gestapo officer? Well, there was one reason, but, since the general arrived in his own car with a female, he obviously wasn't under arrest.

"Fraulein Kraus?" Klink looked at me trying to figure out who I was and why I was traveling with the major and general. I just looked back at him and continued to smile.

"Yes, Colonel Klink." General Biedenbender had taken hold of my hand and kissed the outside of it, "Fraulein Kraus, my fiancée."

Say what? That was not Freundin I heard. "Fiancée?" If they are going to change the gameplan you'd think they at least would let the ball know.

"Yes, I'm sorry Katzchen, I know we meant to let out the secret in Berlin, but I couldn't help it." Again the kissing of the hand.

"_Ich habe keine worte. Nicht eine worte_." It was true I couldn't think of anything. I was totally stunned. What could I say?

"Maybe my private quarters might be better for the Fraulein. She looks a bit under the weather." Klink tried to hurriedly rush us away.

"Yes, your quarters will be fine, we were celebrating my return last night and my fiancée has overindulged," the general said a little too loudly. I wish I knew just who was out in the yard.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

I half-noticed Jake taking immediate action of some sort down below as I followed Hogan and his men to the base of the ladder leading up to the barrack's bunk. I waited at the bottom as each man scrambled up quickly in turn. I could hear Jake getting something organized. IronAmerica found nails—she was our tunnel expert, it seemed. I could hear the commotion above as the alarm blared, Schultz shouted, and the prisoners above clearly stalled.

Hogan—last up the ladder—paused and turned to me. "Cat knows about the tunnels," he said. "The entire operation. If she's really Gestapo…"

A light bulb flash hit me. I dug in my back pocket for the drivers license I'd found. I pressed it into Hogan's hand. Even as the shouts above became more urgent, he studied it. It was Cat's license, and—as with the rest of ours—of materials and type that simply could not be produced in 1943. I expected Hogan would hand this blatantly out-of-time object back to me before he went up—he was inevitably going to be searched—but instead he nodded and put it in his jacket pocket.

Even as the bunk trap was dropping into place, Hogan called to me one last bit of horror-in-waiting.

"The roll call count _cannot_ come up short," he said. "Private White…"

And the bunk slammed closed.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Or have I said that already?

We had to send little, young—way too young—IronAmerica up and out to stand in her place as POW Private Ray White.

Maybe, just maybe, we could make that work for us.

* * *

**IronAmerica:**

I'm going to kill, or at least maim, someone.

I realize that Hogan doesn't like me, and that he probably has a list somewhere of all the ways to kill me. Strangely, though, it doesn't bother me.

I am going crazy.

Oh wait, I'm not going crazy, I AM! Which must be why I'm playing with my cell phone in the middle of the compound amidst the other milling about, stalling prisoners?

Oy vey. I wonder if I can swing the time cop angle to the Nazis. I mean, I have enough know-how of the Star Trek universe to swing the "I'm-from-way-ahead-in-the-time-stream" angle. Well, enough to escape with my body intact. My sanity is another matter entirely.

"_Was ist los_?" Uh-oh. Here comes trouble. In the form of Schultz. He grabs my arm, hauling me up from the bench where I had been sitting. He grabs my cell phone, and stares at it, while holding me away from it. "_Was ist_?"

That can't mean anything good. I swallow, and say, rather loudly "nuqjatlh?" Roughly translated, it means 'huh?' It sounds a bit like you're choking when you say it.

Schultz stares at me hard, before dragging me towards the Kommandant's office. I get one good long look at the 'visitors', before I get shoved through the door. It looks like one women, who I think I recognize. Through the veil, the woman looked pretty messed up, kind of like she was sent through a blender set on puree.

The other man was General Biedenbender, in the flesh. Holy crap. I might as well just shoot myself now, 'cause there is going to be no way in heaven or earth that is going to get me home alive.

* * *

**Cat:**

Klink led the way into his quarters, where some men, prisoners I guess since they weren't wearing the grey blue of the guards' uniforms, were cleaning up some dark spots on the carpet and floor. I really needed my glasses. The colonel seemed a bit embarrassed. "We had a party here last night and some of the cigars burnt holes in the carpet."

"That was where Frau Brosch, her cousin, and maid were standing," remarked Hochstetter indicating to the burn marks.

Klink gave a laugh. "The major will have his joke. There was no Frau Brosch. It was just a little party to reward some of the prisoners for good behavior. Of course there were no women. What would women be doing in an all male prisoner of war camp? Besides, my secretary of course."

Cigars? Those dark burn holes looked like they used the cigars as logs for small camp fires. There were three of them...I remembered the note from Hogan to get the message from Eloi: Beam up at 2100 hours_…There is no Frau Brosch…why would Klink say that unless…Beam up at 2100 hours…No Frau Brosch… that was where Frau Brosch, her cousin and her maid were standing…Beam up at 2100 hours…No, it was just a coincidence_.

But I knew, it wasn't a coincidence. I was holding the note in my hand hoping to get a chance to tell Hogan that they were trying to demoralize Niente and me with fake messages, but, I knew it wasn't fake. Hogan really didn't trust us and had already sent the rest home. No wonder Klink didn't want to acknowledge the existence of Jess, Linda and Tuttle: they now did not exist in this time. But, Niente and I were doomed to live here; a time in which neither of us belonged, as traitors to our countries, God knows as what to our enemies… the note slipped from my fingers.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

I desperately wanted to go up into Barracks Two and use their coffee pot bug, or periscope, or anything else to see and hear what was going on in the compound, but didn't dare. There was too much risk of the bad guys bursting in to search. Instead I rushed back from the Barracks Three trap door, where IronAmerica had gone out, with her muttering for no reason I understood an endless string of Star Trek-isms. Maybe the mickey LeBeau had slipped her had her still befuddled.

Whatever. No time. "Use your cell phone like a ray gun, if you need to create a distraction," I told her hastily. The oddness of the glowing screen would be distraction enough, was my thought. Where she decided to take that little suggestion turned out to be as bewildering to me as it did to everyone else.

So, hurrying back from Barracks Three, I passed through the radio room and Jake's assembly line project. They looked almost done. Jake assembled, Hexiva held, Tuttle soldered. Yeah, those suckers would punch through cheap WWII tires quite neatly. I snagged Linda and we headed off down the tunnels. I paused first, however, and asked if anyone knew where Byakugan's and Carter's exploding gizmos were? Tuttle had seen them and I grabbed a couple and some matches.

Then Linda and I made our way down the ever-more-claustrophobic passageway toward the dog kennel. We both managed to squeeze up into the space below the dog house trap door. The TV show had the whole dog house tilting upward, but the real trap door opened into the doghouse itself. This gave us more cover as we peeked out at the partially obscured view of the compound.

The prisoners were stalling admirably, taking a long time to sort themselves out into lines before each of the barracks. I spotted IronAmerica—already playing openly with her cell phone! What was she thinking?! Cripes. Hochstetter's SS men were growing impatient with the prisoners and the delaying tactics would soon have to cease or shooting would likely start.

Hogan and the men of Barracks Two had been herded out away from the barracks and were covered quite thoroughly. They were stuck.

Strangely enough, though, Hochstetter appeared to be holding off. Why was that? Didn't he have Hogan now, dead to rights? Or did he? Had the real Biedenbender's scenario played out like the fictional Biedenbender's? If so, this Biedenbender had to lay low here in Germany, and Hochstetter didn't have what he needed to snag Hogan immediately. I whispered my thoughts to Linda as we watched Hogan escorted toward Klink's quarters.

Linda agreed. "Biedenbender's trying to get him to slip up," she said.

"Hopefully Cat knows that," I added.

* * *

**Cat:**

"Excuse me, but I feel ill again."

Klink guided me to the washroom next to his bedroom and left me. Guess the pickles didn't really do much for my stomach and it very soon ran to dry heaves again. Finally finishing, I went to the sink to splash some water on my face when I knocked Klink's straight razor down. Bending down, I had cut my finger slightly on the blade while trying to pick it up. It didn't hurt as the blade was so sharp, but the blood had temporarily mesmerized me. I don't know how long I was looking at the small drop become larger and a darker red, all the while thinking I could end it here. No worry about who was going to kill me. I figured I had a two pair hand right now: Hochstetter and Biedenbender on the German side. Surely Biedenbender would tire of me after this plan and I was off. Now knowing the true feelings of Hogan; he and probably Olsen would be the killers for the Allies. I was just wondering who would be added to the mix to make it a full house; one for the Nazis or Allies? If I was to be killed, surely Niente would no longer be safe so I wouldn't have to worry about her either…It would be so easy…just a quick flick… The blade was shining so clear in my eyes… I could see every minute scratch, every detail…It was then I heard a noise behind me and was brought to my senses. WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING?!

I flung the razor far from me and quickly left the room. I quickly looked around to make sure no one was near me and returned to join the men.

I had unfortunately run into Hochstetter coming into the bedroom, obviously trying to find out what was taking me so long. "So we were wondering. Remember your friends are dependent on you."

I guess it was because of the close call, or still being overstressed or even the hangover, heck, I still may have been a bit suicidal… I looked at him and smiled. "Oh, my dear major. It's not me you should be worried about." I came closer to him and fingered his party tie-tack. "You've been in the party for a long time, haven't you?"

He must have been used to women trying to use their sexuality to try and buy time, or their lives, so he smiled back at me. "Yes, I have been a party member since 1931. One of the first."

"But, still a major? You are very efficient in your job, one of the best I hear." I kept my voice low and soft.

He allowed himself, a low chuckle; oh what fools these women can be…

"So handsome, with that dark hair and black eyes…" I was now fingering his lapels; my blood seeping and being hidden in the black of his uniform.

He glanced at the doorway where Biedenbender and Klink were apparently absorbed in conversation.

I leaned in closer and whispered in his ear, "So which side is it?"

Smugly, he asked, "Do you think I would change sides because of a bit of flirtation, Fraulein?"

"No, I was just wondering which side your _Juden_ grandparent was on."

Ah Ha! One theory of mine put to rest. He paled then look like he was about to strike me. I quickly left the room and stood next to Biedenbender and took his hand. I needed comfort from someone; anyone at that moment. Whatever possessed me those few minutes ago, I have no idea, but those are minutes I hope I never had to live again.

I did notice the note was now gone. Good. I didn't want to see that thing again. Ever.

"You're trembling. Are you all right?" he asked.

"MMM mm. I'll live." Yep, I did make the decision to stay and take what ever happened. I mean where's there's life there's hope, right? I certainly hoped so. I just condemned myself at the hands of Hochstetter, hope was all I had left.

"Good. Colonel Hogan will be joining us shortly. I know I've told you so much about him, I think you should meet," The general was saying.

Yes, I think I should meet the colonel again. There are few things I would love to tell him and none would be about enemy agents in London.


	68. Finale, the final part

**Mary Sue Experiments  
****The Final Chapters**

**The 'Final' Finale  
**_epilogues to follow_

by GSJessica, IronAmerica, Jake

**GSJessica:**

So, to make a long story short…

That was a joke. Think of it as gallows humor. There's no making this long story any shorter. At least I felt like I was climbing for an eternity up the ladder to the gallows as I climbed, with Linda right behind me, up to the trapdoor in Klink's quarters beneath the kitchen stove. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I might have a heart attack. I may not have hit it off with Colonel Hogan, but I really would rather he was in charge of the last minute improvisations and schemes. I only had the roughest idea of what we'd do.

Long story short… Everything actually took place with a matter of minutes from the moment the "war party" alert was called to the final resolution of our long time travel journey. To tell it all, however, takes longer than it all took to do, as everything was happening at the same time.

Some of the pieces were put together for me later. I hope those people will fill in the blanks on what really happened and how it all played out for each of them. It struck me again as Linda and I were making our way through the tunnels, how in the TV series you see all the scenes and angles. You know the whole story. In reality, we only knew our own tiny parts. We saw Hogan being escorted toward Klink's quarters by Hochstetter's SS men. We saw IronAmerica with her cell phone being snagged by Schultz and led to the Kommandant's office.

The next thing we saw was the floor of Klink's kitchen as we peeked out of the trapdoor. I suppose the TV series was trying to save on sets by moving the stove location to the living room, but I was infinitely glad it was really in the kitchen. Like the dog house trap door, Hogan's real tunnel exits had an extra layer of cover to them.

I peered around though the tiny gap. No feet. Voices from the other room muffled. I pulled myself gracelessly out onto the floor and stayed down, feet still over the edge of the tunnel opening in case I had to abort this dumbass plan before it even started.

Nothing. No one in the kitchen. I got to my knees, staring hard at the swinging door to the living area. Of course it was going to open at once and I'd be caught and… but it didn't. Deep breath. Linda pushed the exploding, carpet-scorching, smoke gizmo out onto the floor, and stayed in the tunnel, partway out, holding the trap open.

Easing the door open a crack, I looked through. From my limited vantage point I could only see Cat, from behind, looking way too chummy with General Biedenbender. I had that flash of doubt again. Was she really one of _them_? Or, like Hexiva had been, caught in their trap and improvising desperately?

Then I heard Hogan—sounding like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth—oh so innocently claiming he found Cat's drivers license on the ground by their car. I knew darned well he hadn't but was, instead, trying to tip Cat off that _he_ knew she wasn't really Biedenbender's gal. She must have got it, at least partly, for she disengaged from Biedenbender and took a step back and away.

Come on, girl, I silently cheered the move. Just a couple steps more. I needed to attract her attention without any of the others noticing.

That is sooo easy on TV or in stories. Just you try it in real life when if the wrong person hears you you're dead.

After some more furious accusations by Hochstetter, and Biedenbender trying more subtly to get Hogan to slip up, the positions shifted a touch. I saw Hochstetter's black coat move into my field of view. Cat stepped further back, away from him, which brought her just within range…

"Cat!" I hissed and flicked a tiny wad of paper at her.

Oh, I got some attention, all right. The kitchen door pushed open immediately and I found myself face-to-face with Klink!

"Wilhelmina?" Klink's eyes went wide. I snagged him by the collar and pulled him into the kitchen. I don't think anyone noticed him exit the scene, including, unfortunately, Cat.

"Wilhelmina," Klink repeated without the question mark. Aside from my mysterious disappearance from his quarters before (was it only last night?), I imagine I looked somewhat different, without the whole 1940's spiffy lady's garb. "What…? Where…? How…?" Or some such jumbled bit of questions spilled from him. I could literally feel Linda trying to cue me how to act in this situation without actually whispering stage directions from the trap door.

Right. Got it. I put my arms around Klink's neck. "Oh, Wilhelm," I cooed—or did my best to 'coo', I'm not the cooing sort of woman. Anyhow, I whispered rapid regrets that we could not be, separated by time and all that, but perhaps somewhere… somewhen… maybe we could… And let the suggestion trail off. Then I pitched how I needed his help to Save The Future From Hochstetter. That worked. I was right in thinking Klink was anti-Nazi, but even more than that he was anti-Hochstetter. For good measure, I threw in some patter about Hogan being an innocent dupe being used, in the (probably vain) hope Hogan's organization could be saved in this mess.

Of course, the most convincing part of the whole spiel was that I was pressing various parts of my anatomy ever more tightly up against him the whole time.

Then I whispered, most imploringly, how I needed him to get Cat into the kitchen, alone, without any of the others noticing.

He wavered. But I sealed the deal, and his cooperation, with a kiss.

Yes. I did. I kissed Klink.

And let me just say about the experience: Holy cats!

The kiss got longer. And hotter. And I think that 'dead fish' description in one episode of the show was written by someone either deluded or jealous. Wilhelm… _Klink_… was good. Really. Dang. I am _so_ not telling my husband about this!

Well, when the need for oxygen finally became unavoidable, I felt honestly a bit light-headed, and grateful this hadn't happened until it was too late for the inevitable next step to take place.

"Liebling," Klink murmured, giving my chin a gentle brush, then he turned away and did exactly as I had asked, easing Cat discretely back toward the kitchen door. Hochstetter was still trying to bully Hogan into a confession while Biedenbender—growing ever more irritated with Hochstetter's bull-in-china-shop approach messing up his plan—kept delicately trying to get Hogan to admit to, well, _anything_. Then Hochstetter brought out a box, opened it, and Schultz's voice promptly issued forth bellowing the bizarre strains of the Mary Sue song. The fake singing time travel gadget! Oh, goodness, how I'd have loved to have seen Hochstetter's face when he found that by the obliterated lab. As if on cue, Schultz came in from the connecting door to Klink's office, holding IronAmerica's cell phone in one hand, IronAmerica's arm—as she dragged her feet backwards—in the other. IronAmerica shouted at them in some language that sounded vaguely Russian, but including something about phasers, and time cops, and Cardassians… good heavens, she cussing them out in Klingon! I suppose it might have been effective if they'd had the faintest idea what she was saying. Schultz stopped stock still as he saw the golden gadget singing in his voice and started babbling about having found another one.

Well, the distraction wasn't going to get any better than this. On impulse, I shouted, in German, "Don't touch it!", grabbed Cat by the coat, yanking her backwards into the kitchen while tossing the lit flash/bang/smoke gizmo into the spot before the door where she'd stood.

Linda got Cat into the tunnel, with me almost kicking her in the face in my haste to get down there, too. My hands shook as I worked to seal the trap. But, by gosh, I think we may have pulled it off. At least this far. Now, of course, we had to rescue IronAmerica. One step forward, two steps back.

Cat almost cried when she saw us. She honestly thought she'd been abandoned here and now. There were heartfelt hugs all around, and some decided smirks from Linda directed toward me for the little show I'd put on with Klink. Hey! You're all just jealous. He was _good_.

Then back down the tunnel maze we went toward Jake's project in the radio room. Only later did I find out what happened next. I don't know… due credit to IronAmerica for inventiveness, but, well… let's just say her report was just a bit weird. Like I said before, I think she may have been still a bit befuddled by LeBeau's mickey, or got smacked on the head somehow, or Biedenbender's briefcase did emit some mind-altering gas. Whatever really happened in Klink's office, I can offer no opinion. We neither saw nor heard any of it, being all down in the tunnels racing to intercept the next disaster.

* * *

**IronAmerica:**

Schultz wordlessly hands over my phone, and stands back, still holding my upper arm in a vice-like grip. Damn, he is strong. "Sergeant, perhaps you should bring Private White into my office," Klink says softly, staring at me thoughtfully.

I half notice that Klink has wonderful eyes, a beautiful dark blue, before I get shoved through the door by Schultz. I cringe mentally, wondering if I'm going to be turned over to the Gestapo. However, he can't do that, I realize immediately. As far as he knows I'm just a POW, and it's against the Geneva Convention!

Klink sits down, and I stand across from him, looking around discreetly for an advantage. Aside from the helmet and a chair, there is not much to work with. Damn again.

"Where did you get this, private?" Klink looks at me, and I bite my lip. To tell or not to tell… Hmm. Choices, choices, so many choices.

"White, Private Ray. United States Army Air Corp. Serial number 1261993." I stick with the old stand-by. It is a lot easier than telling him something that might very well make his head explode.

Before he can repeat himself, someone else, not Biedenbender, storms into the office, takes one look at me, and screams, "What is this man doing here?" Hochstetter. Ya gotta love him.

I snicker quietly, before going back to my imitation of a stone wall. Inside, my gut is churning, and I feel like I'm going to choke on my heart. I swear right then that I will never_ ever _do anything this stupid again.

Maybe... or maybe not.

Hochstetter looks at Klink's desk, back at me, and then at Klink's desk again. He connects the dots, and smirks at me. I cringe this time. Just as Hochstetter opens his mouth, who should come in but Biedenbender.

"What is it today?" I mutter quietly, looking around the room in amazement. I am in the company of one irate Luftwaffe colonel, an equally irate Gestapo major, and an imposing-and dare I say it? - amused, Luftwaffe general. Oh boy.

"Who is this young man?" General Biedenbender says, his voice dripping casual disinterest. My skin is crawling. I cast a mental prayer for an air-raid siren, and, unfortunately, true to form, none is forthcoming.

"ghay'cha'" I curse quietly, casting a dark glare around the room. This is just not my day. I hope someone is at Colonel Hogan's coffeepot listening in. I grin half-heartedly, and look out the window. LeBeau and Newkirk are there, guarded by Hochstetter's SS men, looking right back at me. Newkirk gives me a grin and a thumbs-up.

Game, set, and match.

"Young man, what is your name?" General Biedenbender says softly, making me jump. How do people do that? I turn around to look at him, eyes going wide. He's freaky, I decide right then and there.

"P-private Ray Wh-white" I stammer, shocked. Fear is probably evident on my face by now. Please oh please let someone be listening in.

Major Hochstetter grabs the front of my shirt, making me meet his gaze. "You. Are. A. Time traveler!" He enunciates each word as though it was a curse. This is, most definitely, my worst day yet.

I frown, and bite my lip, doing a mental calculation. I could probably just go with my original "Time Cop" idea, and try to swing it past them.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

At this point she could have just played dumb and claimed Private White (her) had just found the cell phone in the compound and didn't know what it was. But, nooo! That would have been way too easy.

She and her brother were quite a pair.

* * *

**IronAmerica:**

"No use denying it anymore." I wrench my shirt out of his hands, and stand straight up. "I am from the twenty-third century. I am from Federation Security, on secondment to Star Fleet Security. My main areas of operations are direct violations of the Temporal and Prime Directives, and I am so dead when I get back home for telling you that."

Major Hochstetter stares at me open-mouthed, Klink looks incredulous, and Biedenbender just looks amused.

"Bravo. I must say, this is a rather well thought out scheme on Hogan's part." Biedenbender clapped sarcastically, and smiled at me, bowing a little. He motioned towards my phone, and said, "Obviously, he is more resourceful than I had thought. How he managed to build such a small radio in a prison camp is incredible, and speaks well of his adaptability."

I snorted, and said "And my mother is a Klingon. Tell me another one." They looked at me confused, and then at my cell phone, still intrigued. Obviously, they thought I was nuts.

I'd just have to show them, wouldn't I?

"And really, who would appoint someone so young to a position of obvious significance?" Biedenbender had a point there. However, there are still police academies, and he doesn't know much about the future…

"I never said that. Besides, I'm a cadet. This is my first, and most likely my only, field assignment that I'll ever have." I sighed dramatically, and hung my head. "Investigator Byakugan is going to be so disappointed." At my use of _Byakugan_, Hochstetter refocused on me, narrowing his eyes.

"Byakugan? _Was_?How do you know_ Herr _Byakugan?" he said in German. I frowned, and rubbed my neck, trying to translate what he was saying.

"I'm sorry. Please translate. My UT is temperamental when trying to translate a relatively dead language." I shrugged at their expressions, shaking my head. "Basically I've got no clue what you're trying to say. My Universal Translator has a peculiar attitude concerning dead languages from Terra."

More confused expressions.

I looked out the window, rocking back on my heels. Where was everyone? The room was getting very small, I was running out of clever ideas, and I had just about exhausted my knowledge of Star Trek.

Colonel Klink frowned at me, and I stared right back at him. Finally, Hochstetter broke the staring contest by picking up my cell phone and shoving it into my face, snarling, "Make this work!"

"jIyajbe'" I said, holding up my hands in confusion. Translation: I don't understand. "Please translate." I looked at Klink and Biedenbender, some of my real desperation for a rescue passing onto my face.

"He asked you to make this…" Klink trailed off, looking at my phone confusedly. "Major Hochstetter ordered you to make your radio work."

"I-" I paused, looking around, fishing for the right words. "It won't. I need a higher security clearance or authorization from my superiors to get a model that will work on such a… backwater."

"What? You need a higher-" Hochstetter looked at me, openmouthed. General Biedenbender was looking at me thoughtfully, which was somehow less than comforting.

"Perhaps, even if this young man doesn't have this-" he paused, before continuing "-higher security clearance, we can still learn about future events. I believe that would be possible. Hogan," he added significantly to Hochstetter.

I give him my very best Klingon repellent glare.

I asked a question. "Who was the sentient woman in the ground vehicle?" I motioned in the general direction of the staff car.

"No one that you should concern yourself with, Herr White" General Biedenbender said, deflecting my question. "I, however, am more interested in your appearance. Surely, a man from so far in the future should be more impressive? Are you one of the _untermensch_ from your time?"

That was a low blow. I knew what he meant, and I resented his implication. "khoi-udt" I said. Translation from Romulan: Drop dead. And I meant it. I hated Germany, I hated the Luftwaffe, I hated the Gestapo, and I was in a very bad mood.

"I'm afraid I do not understand you, Herr White" General Biedenbender said, his voice oily, and gross sounding. He was a gentleman, but that was only concerning women, and then it most likely only applied to German women. Yeesh.

"I'll answer your question if you answer mine" I said sweetly, smirking at him. Both of us knew that we had no intention of such a thing as an information exchange.

"Perhaps" Biedenbender said, before ordering one of his lackeys to do something. I wish I could speak German as well as I speak Klingon. At least then I would have some idea of what was going on.

The lackey returned immediately with my least favorite person. Nevertheless, right at that moment, I had never been happier to see him. Colonel Hogan, in the living breathing flesh, escorted by two SS guards. He started delivering his standard lines, which I had never been happier to hear.

"Colonel Klink, why wasn't I informed of the interrogation of this prisoner? According to the Geneva Convention, a senior officer is required at all interrogations!" It was a relief to hear that coming from him. I had been afraid he would never come.

Hochstetter whirled to face me, and I raised my hands in a defensive gesture. "Major, you need to calm down," I said soothingly. "Acting irrationally will get you nowhere." It was actually a fairly good impersonation of a Vulcan.

"Private, shut up. And that's an order," Colonel Hogan said. It seemed that he was willing me to not go completely bonkers again. Not that it'd work, seeing as I'd dug myself in really deep…

"Colonel Hogan, it would seem that you have been severely misinformed," Biedenbender said smoothly. "Herr White is not a POW. He has told us exactly what we have needed." He smiled at Hogan, daring him to contradict that statement.

Here's my "oh shit" moment for the day.

"Huh?" Not exactly the most intelligent thing Hogan could have said.

"Colonel, it has been… intriguing, living in your barracks, among such wonderful specimens of the twentieth century. I thank you for the opportunity to study your culture."

"Herr White is a time traveler, Colonel Hogan." Oh, just great Hochstetter. Just shoot me now, why don'tcha? "And a part of Hogan's scheme."

"A time traveler? Are you alright, Major Hochstetter? I could call Wilson if you need a doctor." Dang. Hogan was definitely good at playing a part.

"It is true, Colonel Hogan," I said, smiling thinly. "Byakugan and I were investigating a temporal disturbance, which led us directly to your doorstep. I apologize for the deception, but it was necessary." Two can play at this game.

Another unnamed lackey chose right then to reenter, carrying Biedenbender's briefcase. They opened it, revealing another box inside.

"Perhaps, Herr White, you would tell us the meaning of this box?" Biedenbender was good at getting what he wanted; I had to give him that. I looked even closer at the box.

"Err," I paused, thinking. Then I plowed on. "It might be a force field box. If it were, it would logically contain hazardous or toxic substances. It could also be a stasis box, but those are extremely rare. Of course, it's not glowing, so logically, it's not." I didn't go into any more detail in that area. I unbent, and looked around. "I don't suppose any of you have a type 2 phaser handy? No?" I sighed. "We need a volunteer to open the box. And I am _not_ going near that thing."

"Colonel Hogan, open it." Biedenbender looked at Hogan, and his tone brokered no dissention.

Colonel Hogan looked at me, eyes promising a slow painful death as he gingerly took hold of the box.

He yelped, dropping it. His hands had turned red, and he looked like he was in a lot of pain. "Now do you see?" I asked.

Everyone glared at me, but Hogan continued on. It seemed that he hoped the box would contain a way to get rid of all the time travelers.

I turned to Biedenbender, suddenly curious. "Where did you get this anyways? It sure as heck didn't come from a slagging market."

General Biedenbender smiled back at me. "I am confused by your terminology, young man. However, it did not come from a market. Some agents acquired it from the Bank of London. The receipt from the bank dated its entry to the vault in 1878."

Unnoticed by anyone in the room but me, Hogan perked up at them mention of the boxes date of entry.

"Really? Dang, that place really _is _ancient. I use that bank!" I don't actually, but just to foster good will and peace on earth… Besides, I might as well do a complete and thorough job of digging myself into this hole.

"Indeed. Two of Hogan's agents also picked up a message from that same box early yesterday morning." I feel a momentary surge of fear. Those were my fellow writers in a potentially hostile situation! And I hadn't tried to lie them out of it! What was wrong with me?! Human nature to forget about that, as Q would say.

"Really? What led you to the conclusion that they were Hogan's? I think recognized that woman. I think," I added quickly. "She looks kinda like some of my friends from the academy. They were upperclassmen, or women, in this case."

"How unusual... As to the agents, they are none of your concern. Now, this," he pointed to the box in the open briefcase, "is what I am more concerned with."

"That isn't supposed to be here" I muttered, biting my lip. Hogan had stopped trying to open Byu's box, and was looking over at us in trepidation.

"Really? Where is it supposed to be, Herr White?" Biedenbender has officially dropped into the "slimy" category.

"Not here. If I could have a look, I could tell you who it was meant for. You aren't supposed to have it." I swallowed again, looking out the window, wishing for a couple of hulking resistance guys to come into the compound, guns blazing.

It would so much easier to be dead.

I lean over the box. Then I turn to Hogan, who has managed to open the box finally. A cloud of gas has erupted in our faces. I sigh, hanging my head.

"Oh god. Why NOx? Why did it have to be NOx?" I mentally curse my brother for deciding to include NOx in his design. And the smoke pellets. Good lord. Was there nothing he wouldn't stoop to for revenge or deterrents?

Everyone in the small room is watching me, and I begin to wonder if I can turn this situation to the benefit of myself and my fellow travelers. I touch my ear, as though using a Blue-tooth, and say "Jake, GSJ, Tuttle, LJ, Hubbles, Hex, if you're there; come to the office of the twentieth century soldier. The main one." Hopefully everyone heard that.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

Nope. Not a one of us.

Now, I wasn't there. But Hogan said later that there was a briefcase—Biedenbender's—with a box inside. IronAmerica had been babbling at light speed and no one understood a word of what she was going on about, so he couldn't say if her account was accurate or not. What he did say was Byakugan (he added a few colorful modifiers before he said Byakugan's name), had put a box in the Bank of London (our code-named Gringotts), but it was quite ordinary for 1878, but when opened IronAmerica got a snoot full of some kind of gas. Inside the box there was a note, as she said, with a cryptic poem, and one other object below. That was it, as far as Hogan knew.

So, take this next part with a massive grain of salt.

* * *

**IronAmerica:**

"What?!" I ignore them, and continue with my dissection of the poem. "_The reason for war. _That one is starting to make sense." I grin, finally realizing what Byakugan meant, and say clearly, enunciating every word "Cross-Genesis." The box inside glows brightly.

Inside the box the glowing died down to reveal a laptop screen with Byu's face looking out at the room and grinning. "Voice code confirmed, hello Colonel Hogan." I grinned, and waved at Byu, and said "Hello!" I said loudly waving to my brother's image.

"Voice code confirmed, hello IronAmerica."

"IronAmerica?" Hochstetter asked.

"Colonel, CROSS-GENESIS!" I yelled, desperate.

"Voice code confirmed- IronAmerica" the laptop said as it came back on.

"Thank you god!" No translation needed there.

"I am sorry, my responses are limited. You must ask the right questions." Ack! He just _had_ to use **I Robot** didn't he.

"Okay, fine. Ummm. What the in the name of Kahless am I supposed to say?"

Everyone looked at me, wondering about my interaction with the laptop, I guess.

"Somebody just shoot me" I muttered, low enough that no one could hear. "Byu, stop quoting every piece of the twenty-first entertainment industry, and get to the FRACKING POINT!" My face was getting rather red, and I wanted to hit someone.

"I am sorry, my responses are limited. You must ask the right questions." I glared at the computer.

Finally, another time-traveler spoke up, and it was probably our saving grace. "Like hell your responses are limited! Just give us the message so we can go home!"

"That, Jessica, is the right question. New program."

* * *

**GSJessica:**

I have no idea how I'm supposed to have been in the office at this point. In reality, Linda, Cat, and I were climbing up the dog house tunnel entrance to take another peek out at the compound to see what was happening.

What we saw chilled our blood. Hogan was being led out of Klink's office with Hochstetter's pistol unwaveringly against his head. IronAmerica was being dragged out—literally dragged, her feet weren't propelling her—by two SS goons. I felt a spasm of fear and guilt. Had they hurt the poor kid? She was just a young girl, I shouldn't have let her go out into that situation no matter what. Biedenbender stopped by the lineup of Hogan's men and had Hogan's primary crew pulled out of the lineup by the SS guards. LeBeau, Carter, Newkirk, Kinchloe… he didn't miss a one.

Whatever happened in that office, whether somehow IronAmerica slipped and connected Hogan to the time travelers, or what, they had them and were taking them away. I could see Klink protesting, but he and his guards were too out-gunned by the SS men for any effective protest.

Holy God! Real prayer, that, not casual blasphemy. Help us, now! We dropped back down, and bending low in this side-tunnel, ran as fast as we could back to Jake, Hexiva, and Tuttle in the radio room.

* * *

**IronAmerica:**

The screen flickered and showed Byu Glaring at the screen with a look if pure fury on his face. Obviously he had recorded this part before he had had a chance to cool down. "Good after noon boys and girls. As you are now listening to this it would seem that you have gotten past of all of the traps to keep the wrong people out or if that fails punish Hogan properly. Hogan, you're a despicable bastard who should be strung up by his own entrails, if you had taken a few seconds to pay attention to what I was saying in the meeting room this whole situation might have been avoided. As it is, I have a feeling that in your idiocy you wished to remove the complication of having a presumed wild cannon in your midst and gain further information on the watch. Well the receipt should have given you your date, so here is my final weigh in on the situation. Open the damned thing, the watches face is the key. Program terminated." The screen went dark.

I sighed again. This was definitely typical. I wished that someone would just shoot me, and put me out of my misery. But, my wish to get home was a whole heckuva lot stronger than my desire to sink through the floor and die. "Thank you, Byakugan. Now, who has the watch?"

She looked at me, a small dark cloth-wrapped object in her hand. She held it out. "On second thought, you can open it."

Oh great.

"Thank you so much for your vote of confidence." I took the object, and un-wrapped it. A shiny gold surface winked up innocently at me. Just a plain, ol', stupid pocket watch.

* * *

**Jake:**

Suddenly I had an assembly line, as multiple hands grabbed nails and held them together, so all I had to do was go down the line and dab solder on them. Within a minute I had enough to do the job. Then Linda, Cat, and Jessica came racing back down the tunnel, shouting that Hochstetter was taking them out of the camp. Jessica grabbed herself another handgun from the arms locker and looked at me.

"Rifle," I said. Since I would be supporting it with my left arm, the wound in my right arm shouldn't pose a problem. What she handed me, however, made my heart sink. The closest I'd ever been to a Mauser before had been some pictures and diagrams I'd seen on the 'Net. My memory of them was still pretty clear, as I'd seen them fairly recently; I hoped I'd have a few minutes to look the rifle over once we'd seeded the road. Otherwise, I'd have to bluff.

I had exactly three minutes, as it turned out. It was long enough.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

I don't know how Jake did it. She'd lost blood when she got shot, had barely slept or eaten, and I knew she had problems with her legs giving out, but she was a soldier through and through at this moment and the rest of us were hard-pressed to keep up as she tore through the woods.

Hexiva and Tuttle spread the cow-traps, or whatever Jake said the tire-puncturing things were called. The girls were younger, quicker, and not so out of breath as Jake and I. I took position where Jake motioned me to, and waited. I could hear the approaching vehicles.

Poor Hogan, I thought, his team, his life, his organization, were in the hands of a last-moment rescue thrown together by the Mary Sue Brigade.

* * *

**Jake:**

There were a staff car and a troop carrier. The staff car blew both left tires and tried to keep going on the rims; Jessica put a bullet in the radiator, and the resultant cloud of steam forced the blinded driver to a stop long before the engine would have seized up from overheating.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

Amazingly, I actually was aiming for the radiator.

* * *

**Jake:**

The troop carrier rear-ended it before it managed to stop, its brakes emitting the high-pitched squeal that told of a desperate need for re-shoeing.

Those of us who were armed came out of cover then, forcing everyone out of both vehicles. Kinch, Carter, and a the others from Barracks Two joined us at that point, and it was all over but the shouting. With Hochstetter and Biedenbender secured, we headed back for the tunnel. Once again, as soon as we were out of sight, the sound of gunfire told us that no one would be giving any reports of the incident.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

You know that bit in the show where problems just Go Away. Ulp. You don't want to know how problems often went away. Klink showed up with his guards on the heels of the destroyed little convoy. I knew he was more of a man than the TV series showed him to be. He wasn't going to let Hochstetter get away with Hogan and his other prisoners if he could help it. I don't know how he overcame the rest of the SS at the camp, but he did.

Through the bushes, I saw Hogan go into his innocent routine and say something about an Underground attack. Still, and always, covering tracks for his outfit. I did hear him say something about the Underground 'men' being all women… women with rayguns.

I smiled and just knew Klink's report would leave out those details.

Then we were on our way, Hogan's men returning with Klink and his guards, the rest of us on foot by the 'back entrance' to the camp. Several of us took turns supporting IronAmerica. She grinned broadly and hoped we would all live long and prosper.

Me, too.

* * *

**Jake:**

Naturally, Hochstetter started his intimidating bluster almost immediately, completely ignoring Biedenbender's orders to shut up. It quickly started grating on my nerves; from the first run of the show, I'd always _hated_ that guy, and he was even worse in person. The minute we were back in the tunnel, I jabbed my rifle barrel into a very sensitive portion of his anatomy. Like the coward he actually was, after a squeal of pain, he fell into a trembling silence.

Man, that felt good.

"Boy, remind me never to tick _her_ off," Carter remarked to one of the others.

I grinned at him, though it must have been a pretty fierce grin, because a couple of the girls moved away from me. "I know what the Gestapo does to female prisoners," I said offhandedly, then safetied the rifle and handed it off to the nearest of Hogan's men.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

Niente and Olsen were rescued by an Underground strike team, later that day. This time Hogan strictly ordered all of us to remain behind in the tunnels. I can't say I blamed him. He and his men didn't dare leave, either, which had him pacing incessantly for hours. For a while, at least, he and his men would have to lay low; couldn't risk being caught outside the camp.

When we heard our lost sheep arrive, the greetings were not subdued. Weirdly, the first words out of Niente's and Olsen's mouths were something to the effect of, "Biedenbender is slaking green men at Winchester Cathedral."

That got a genuine laugh from Cat, who had already filled Hogan in on the spy situation in London. And we were treated to a hilarious monologue by Tuttle, who had recovered at least some of her good spirits, about Radar O'Reilly's encounter with 'slaking' in a MASH episode.

Niente then produced the note from Gringotts, from Byakugan, which was a bit cryptic, a bit insulting, and a bit snarky, but did contain some actual ideas about the time gadget—apparently he and the German scientist Herzer had figured out a way to open the back of the time gadget, which revealed a tool for setting the symbols on the dials.

In good spirits, and with Cat and Niente having fresh eyes for the project, the confirmation of the date Byakugan had been sent to, and the odd fragmented information IronAmerica said came from Byakugan, we came up with what we thought was the correct setting for returning us to 2008.

Or so we hoped.

* * *

**Jake:**

Hochstetter and Biedenbender ended up being our guinea pigs to test the time device. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall when they arrived in 2008! We were all almost beside ourselves with wicked glee as various scenarios played themselves out in our fertile imaginations.

* * *

**GSJessica:**

Biedenbender just gave a disgusted look at Colonel Hogan, and said, "You are not_ a_ devil. You are _the_ devil," then touched the gadget and disappeared.

It took a gun to the head to make Hochstetter touch it.

Within seconds of their disappearance, one of Hogan's men—I didn't recognize him—ran up through the tunnels with a couple papers. They'd suddenly appeared in one of the barracks, and the other in the compound. Hogan solemnly examined them, then turned one around to show us. It was a printout of a digital color photo of General Biedenbender and Major Hochstetter in custody of a way too clean-cut looking young man. The D.C. skyline was visible in background. The _2008_ skyline, that is, with the date-stamp on the photo matching.

Tuttle pointed to the spook in the photo, saying, "That's my CIA man."

Huh. She had mentioned running into a CIA man, hadn't she?

Without further hesitation, Tuttle reached out, touched the device and vanished.

Hogan, then, turned the other paper he'd gotten around to show us. It was Tuttle, grinning and hugging the (rather cute) CIA man. She'd scrawled beneath the photo, "It worked. Hurry up."

* * *

**Jake:**

Then it was our turn, and some of the girls each gave hugs to at least one Hero. In this, I was decidedly out of my element. Back in my GI days, the guys in my squadron used to call me the Iron Maiden, a name which still fits.

Carter shyly approached me. "I just thought you oughta have this," he stammered. "I mean, it's not like anybody can put you in for one or anything…"

I looked at what he'd handed me. It was a Purple Heart, probably one of his own. I grinned at him. "Thanks, Carter," I said, and did give him a hug then.

And then I got a grip on my shyness. I was _not_ going to let this opportunity slip by, though I will admit a hug was not what I had in mind.

I went over to Colonel Hogan. "I won't say it's been fun, because this is not my idea of a good time, but I will say it's been a real pleasure knowing you, sir."

To my surprise, he gave me a solemn salute and shook my hand, then enfolded me in a brief hug. "You too." He grinned at me.

And then it hit me as I reached for the device. Reports. Oh, my goodness.

You see, two very strange things had happened to me in the Air Force. The first one happened during my first week at my first permanent posting. Some colonel saluted me before I could react to his presence, and held it until I returned it, making it clear it was no accident. A full bird colonel does _not_ salute a slick-sleeve unless the latter holds the Congressional Medal of Honor, which I don't.

The second happened two years later. I was on the base honor guard, and we were detailed to perform opening and closing ceremonies at an officers' formal dinner in honor of a visiting general, whose name I no longer remember. Anyway, after the opening ceremonies, he paid us the honor of ordering us to be served dinner with the officers. During the course of the evening, the detail OIC introduced each of us to the general, who courteously asked each of about our backgrounds. When he got to me, however, he flabbergasted me by saying, "Ah, yes, I've heard about…" and going into the one or two highlights of my military career to that point, and a few from my personal life before then, as well. At the time, I was engaged to a guy with a higher security clearance than mine, and I assumed he had recently seen the results of a more detailed background check than the one I'd undergone when I'd first enlisted.

Now I have to wonder.

(**Jake** **Note:** _Those two incidents really did happen.  
The "background check" theory did, in fact, turn out to the reason behind the second;  
however, I've never found an explanation for the first)_

* * *

**GSJessica:**

Colonel Hogan hugged Linda, and Carter snapped a photo of them grinning at the camera (it's posted in the Yahoo group).

I said my farewells, the most affectionate being with Olsen. He had been my 'son' for two months, after all. I was sorely tempted to kiss Hogan and see how it compared to Klink, but decided some questions are better left unanswered. A handshake sufficed. We never did get along.

The others gone, I took one last look at the tunnels, and at the Heroes, and suddenly regretted all the questions we hadn't dared ask, and the things we hadn't learned. Ah, well…

As I reached for the time device, I heard a shout from above, "Colonel! There's trouble. It's…"

I didn't hear the rest as my hand touched the device and I went home.

* * *

_This is 'the end' of the story portion of the Mary Sue Experiments. Each author will be offered the opportunity to add a personal epilogue to the tale. _

* * *


	69. Epilogue, GSJessica

**Epilogue – GSJessica**

"Colonel! There's trouble. It's…" I heard, and then I was standing on a sidewalk looking at a gray stone wall just off the tip of my nose, with the voice of Scotty in my head telling Captain Kirk they might materialize inside solid rock.

No, it wasn't another time trip, just IronAmerica's influence, and my own heart-pounding reaction to finding myself that close to a stone wall, when and where I was, which was…

Home!

Well, not _home_ home. I don't live in Washington, D.C., but gosh darned close enough. What's a couple thousand miles when at least you're in the right year. I turned around to see a newspaper vendor, with the date showing on a paper. 2008 (blessed 2008!) and just two months since I'd left. Hmm… I'd been in 1943 longer than that, but not much. My husband… I had to find a phone. Wait, I had a phone. The cell phone should work again (blessed cell towers and satellites!)

"Ma'am," a voice sounded near me. I turned to see Tuttle's CIA man standing near me.

A dazzling burst of suspicion and paranoia was my first reaction. There'd obviously already been a huge cover-up regarding Hogan, Stalag 13, and the whole time travel business. I didn't want to make it home only to be 'disappeared' in a cover-up.

Then a genuine smile crossed his face and he added, "Welcome home, ma'am. If you'd be so kind as to join me, the others are waiting for you."

Two _ma'ams_ in less than a minute. And I thought I'd left being called that behind sixty-five or so years ago.

What can I say. It was odd and disorienting to be back. The difference in sounds leapt out at me. The cars were much quieter, and they didn't stink so badly. Even a diesel bus passing by as we walked around the corner to the National Archives entrance didn't emit half as much toxic fumes as one of those no-emission-controls trucks in '43.

Inside, up several stories through corridors of offices we went. Curiously, the trek through the building soothed me a bit. The building pre-dated the war, and hadn't been changed too much. Yet everything had changed in a thousand ways. The biggest I noticed was that no one smelled. Of anything. There were no body odors. No colognes or perfumes. And, most wonderful of all, no smoking. I could take a deep breath and not fight the urge to choke.

Into a large, brightly lit conference room we went, there to find all my colleagues in time travel and fanfic gathered around a table.

I'm going to say something now that may shatter the fabric of the universe:

God bless the CIA!

Okay? We're still here? Yeah, I don't think that phrase is said too often, but I really meant it.

_They had pizza!_

And Starbucks and Cinnabons and Godiva chocolates and… you name it.

IronAmerica was on her cell phone talking with her brother. And, no, he wasn't still stuck in 1878. So, all was well.

The only sour spots in the room were Major Hochstetter and General Biedenbender in chairs off to the side. Biedenbender was unrestrained and being treated as an honored, but somewhat untrustworthy, guest, with two men who wore that Fed look hovering near him. The general's expression was blank and haunted, and as close to misery in the pure form as any I've ever seen. Cat, of all people, despite what he had put her through, offered him a cup of Starbucks coffee. The act of kindness brought a flicker of softening to his wretched face.

Hochstetter, on the other hand, was being treated as a wild animal. His expression… I shuddered at the look burning in those eyes. His hands were behind his back, handcuffed I assumed, and he was flanked by two beefy fellows who… well, let's just say that ethnically, neither one would be likely to tolerate any racist Nazi crap Herr Major might spew. From the bruise darkening on his cheek, it looked like Hochstetter hadn't submitted to his new circumstances without a fuss.

Not long after I joined the gathering, they took Hochstetter and Biedenbender away. What they'd do with Hochstetter, I don't know, and it was hard to care. Trying a man for war crimes—and you just know there had to be some—when he had a birthday that made him over a century old, yet he appeared only about forty, would be a tough sell. Yet he could not be released into this world.

Biedenbender, though… I don't know.

Apparently Cat did, for before I arrived, she'd had some Archives queries done. Before he was led out, the CIA man informed him that his daughter, though now deceased, had survived the war and Dachau and that Biedenbender had great-great grandchildren living well and happy in Germany. That, at least, brought a hint of a smile to his face. I hoped he got to see them.

Then we got down to the nitty-gritty. Here it came. Cover-up time. Area 51 and all that.

No. Not at all. Feel free to tell anyone and everyone about our adventure back in time in Stalag 13 with "Hogan's Heroes." Jerk, I thought, but couldn't help grinning. Sure, tell everyone. Not a soul on earth would believe our tale was real!

I wonder if "Raiders of the Lost Ark" was really a documentary?

Anyhow, visiting, comparing notes, chatting rapidly to decompress, filling each other in on our stories… I was the only one with any major time gap that had to be explained. They'd given my husband some cover story about hostages to take care of it. I'd chastise him later for believing anything the government told him. But, other than that, no real ramifications were left out of our trip.

Info we got in return… they were fairly open about it, actually. In the chaos of the war's end, and the devastation of Germany, for the British and U.S. forces to obliterate any record of Stalag 13's existence was easier than you'd think. The POWs held there had already been sworn to the highest level of secrecy because of Hogan's operation. A few records were altered and they were ordered to keep their mouths shut. Unbelievable? Think of all those people in the just-released OSS files who were spies and never told anyone. Believe me, I was going to be digging through those records for familiar names.

The reason for the cover up… the existence of the time travel device. I did have a hunch they weren't telling us everything there (duh!). And the openness smacked shut like a vault when we asked about the fates of Hogan, Newkirk, LeBeau, Carter, Kinchloe, Olsen, Klink and Schultz. Well, not quite totally. The CIA man did purposely tilt his I.D. a bit to catch the light and we saw his last name matching that of one of the Heroes.

Evening had come when I stepped out on to the D.C. street, waiting a minute for the cab the CIA guy had summoned for me. No way in hell was I going in the subway! I might not even go down in my own basement ever again.

The others spread out in their own directions—some to home, some to pick up where they left off. We really didn't want to spend any more time together, at least not for a while. We each needed that private time just now. Anyhow, a cab to take me to a suite in the best hotel in town—on the Fed's nickel—and a hot whirlpool tub to look forward to, and air conditioning, and television. Tomorrow a flight home.

I took a deep breath, feeling quite at peace even though the last words I heard in 1943 kept nagging at me. "Colonel! There's trouble. It's…" Ah, well… it was long ago and far away and resolved in another century. There was nothing I could do, then or now, but wonder.

I saw the cab approaching when I heard a 'bang' behind me. My reflexes had gotten a workout recently with real danger. I whirled and ducked, even as the rational part of my brain said it was probably nothing.

Nothing, indeed.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!

"Wilhelmina! Liebling! Was ist...?"

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!

Yes, there he was, Her Oberst Wilhelm Klink, in Washington, D.C. in the year 2008, wearing a swastika-covered Luftwaffe colonel's uniform, holding a briefcase. A gold object fell from his hand. It was… or rather more apparently _wasn't_, just a plain, ol', stupid pocket watch.

How was I going to explain this one to my husband?


	70. Epilogue, IronAmerica

**Epilogue-IronAmerica**

Okay, obviously being debriefed was never my idea of fun. The government people who showed up at the house a few days after I got home decided that it would be a good idea. What, are they afraid that I'll tell everyone? Not likely. So, here goes. Try not to fall asleep.

"Home has never looked so good.

"I can honestly say that I never want to be that far away from home again for a long while. Being stuck in 1943 did manage to put things in perspective for me, however. I now resolve to learn anything and everything I can about time-travel, history, and temporal paradoxes. It's strange, but I find myself missing some of the 40's.

"It was fun, when I wasn't stuck in the tunnels or driving everyone mad or to distraction. I cannot believe that I'm saying this, but I'm genuinely going to miss some of the people back there.

"Peter Newkirk, for instance. I like him, a lot, but, well- the phone bill and the travel costs to maintain a long distance relationship like ours would be horrendous. Still, we managed to part on good terms. I gave him one last kiss, which will probably be the best one I ever have. Have you ever been kissed like there's no tomorrow?"

The agent sitting across from me glared, but I plowed on, oblivious.

"James Kinchloe. I have apologized for any problems I may or may not have been responsible for. I told him that we may not be rock-steady, but he was definitely someone that I was privileged to know. I also may have told him to be extremely careful during the sixties. Especially some of the race riots, out by Newark and the east coast. Temporal Paradoxes aside, I felt he deserved some hints about where not to go in the future.

"Andrew Carter. After he asked me "What the heck were you talking about in Klink's office?" I had to tell him about Star Trek. I was lying through my teeth, you know. I have written all of this. I may have embellished my parts during that actual trip a bit. Not that much, though. However, I have liked watching Star Trek, especially since the ST marathon on the Sci-fi channel a year ago.

"Louis LeBeau. Hmmm. Not much I can say on this subject. I did tell him that if I ever came across him again, I would be checking any drink he gave me for drugs of any kind. I swear he put some sort of knockout drug in there, despite his assurances that he didn't. I am paranoid. So sue me.

"Robert Hogan. I cannot really say everything I want to, because I have to make this G-rated. Or so says you, my newest puppy-dog from the CIA. Geez. Okay, here goes my official report for the debriefing, concerning him. Colonel Robert Hogan and I had a terrible relationship. When we weren't trying to actively kill each other, we were going out of our way to antagonize each other. We had several rather verbal arguments, and no one will say any differently."

"Miss, this an official debriefing. Pleas try and keep to the point," the stone-faced agent, whose name escapes me, said.

"What? You expect me to make sense?" I asked, incredulous. Stone-face glared at me, and I sighed. "Okay, fine. Once more, from the top."

I picked up the tape recorder, and put in a new tape.

"Here goes. My name is classified on so many levels that even the president isn't allowed to know. I have spent the last month in the year nineteen forty-three."

Stone-face cleared his throat. "You realize that you've been missing since March, and it is now well into July?" I looked at him, annoyed.

"Right. Once again. I have been in nineteen forty-three since March. It is now July. I have no idea what the day is anymore. You yanked me out of the house before I could really be settled back into the swing of things. It has been four months, and about twenty-six days, give or take a few. I responded to a cell phone text message sent by a fellow writer, GSJessica. She had apparently found proof that Hogan's Heroes did, in fact exist." I cleared my throat, and continued.

"I persuaded my mother to drop me off in the National Archives, where I proceeded to find the box and the pictures. The clerk almost refused me access to the box, but relented, and asked for a contact number. After the evidence there had convinced me, I contacted a friend of mine. Her designation is Mugiwara. She's also the one who notified the police that I had vanished from the archives."

Agent Stone-face nodded, and wrote something on his notepad. "Miss, would you please describe your arrival for the record?"

I nodded, called up the memory, and smiled. "I was wearing a tank-top, shorts, and sandals. I had no time to become oriented to my surroundings, before someone in a black staff car nearly ran me over. It turned out to be Peter Newkirk. I called him gorgeous, and promptly passed out."

"This was the beginning of your alleged affair with Mister Newkirk?"

I snorted. "Whoever said that we had an affair is full of B.S. We kissed a few times, held hands, hugged. It was more along the lines of the casual relationships that are so popular among the younger set today."

"Of course. Now, there are also apparently allegations that you threatened to reveal an international secret to the Nazis and the kommandant of Stalag thirteen?"

"That did happen, unfortunately. I was acting stupid, I was tired, and I had a bit of a culture shock thing going on. However, I would like to forget about that."

"So noted" the agent said dryly. One would think he was mocking me. "There are also allegations that you revealed future events to those who were not, in fact, your fellow travelers?"

I wonder who he heard that from... "Yes, but not clear enough that anyone would be able to get much out of it. I did drop a few not so subtle hints about where not to go. I also may or may not have told Sergeant Kinchloe when segregation would end."

Agent Stone-face raised an eyebrow.

"Right, Urhm." I paused, not knowing what to say next. Imagine me, lost for words. What a novel idea!

"Thank you. There are records, which have been declassified for the course of this debriefing, that state that Colonel Hogan threatened to kill you. Are these reports accurate?"

"Uh, yeah. If I recall correctly, his exact words were 'If you do anything to put my men or my operation at risk, I will not hesitate to kill you.' Like that? Or maybe the more subtle cues, like the death-glares, and the not so subtle glances at sections of the tunnel floor when the colonel was speaking to me?"

"I asked you if you would keep on task, but yes. You were threatened, but you are aware that it was within the boundaries allowed to protect national and international secrets and security, I trust?"

"Seems so."

"Of course. Now, and please answer this honestly, during your first set of answers, you stated that the relationship between yourself and Colonel Hogan was less than desirable. You stated that you and he deliberately antagonized each other, and threatened each other on an almost hourly basis. Is this true?"

"Do you ever ask any questions that don't end with 'is this true?'" Before he could respond to my less than polite statement, I answered his. "Yes. He snooped through my stuff, so I quoted the UCMJ to him. He locked me up in the tunnels, I went exploring. Hogan forbade me to go anywhere without guards, so I disobeyed his orders. This may not have been a good idea."

"Probably not," Agent Stone-face said, deadpan. He smiled at me, looked down at his notepad, and asked another question. "Your older brother, designation Byakugan789, appeared a few days after your arrival. He was in the custody of the Gestapo, and was in the Stalag, when you were captured outside of the wire by a Gestapo patrol. When did you first realize that he was there, and when did Colonel Hogan agree to save him? My notes indicate that the Colonel was apparently reluctant to do so at first."

"I first found out that Byu was in the stalag after I had been processed by Kommandant Klink. I told Colonel Hogan later that evening, when he visited me using the tunnels. I guess that he convinced his team to help when he left."

I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "Can I have something with a lot of caffeine in it? I'm kinda thirsty."

"Later. We still have quite a ways to go before we get to half-way." He smiled at me, looking slightly tired himself. We had been at this since eight a.m. this morning after all.

"Would you care to elaborate on this ahh," Agent man looked at his notes, confusion evident on his face, "Umm. They're calling it the 'Mary-Sue' song. Would you care to elaborate on this please?"

"If you answer one quicky question. What's your name?"

"Stone. Now please, answer the question."

"You wouldn't really believe me. We thought that it would send us back home at high speeds. You see, it came through a glowing portal on a sheet of notebook paper, and said that if we wanted to get home, we had to sing the song. I can do a rendition if you want it for your records."

"That won't be necessary!" Agent Stone yelped. Apparently, he had heard the musical watch.

"Okay."

"Right. Ah, it says here," he indicated his pad again, "that you tried to lie your way past no less then two officers of the German military and one from the Gestapo. You allegedly tried to tell them that you were from the twenty-third century, and that you were there as part of some sort of field training exercises that went horribly wrong. It also states that you made several references to the show Star Trek, and used several phrases from languages that didn't exist until nineteen seventy-nine. Am I correct?"

I laughed aloud. "Oh good god. They actually recorded that?" I laughed again, before composing myself. "Agent Stone, I was lying through my teeth at that point. I did use several references to the Klingon and Romulan languages. I also used several references from several science-fiction novels that I enjoyed reading. You would not believe how scared I was that they would realize that I was lying."

He nods, still looking amused. "Off the record, I'd like to say that it's a pleasure to meet a fellow Klingonite. On the record, I have to reprimand you for taking unnecessary risks that you are not trained to deal with. And I still have half a notebook of debriefing questions to go through." He gave me a small grin that didn't exactly go with his government agent look.

"Okay, ask away, Agent Stone." I licked my lips, wondering what he would ask next.

"Going back a bit further, my notes say that you resorted to a rather unique form of torture for a perceived slight. Would you care to elaborate on the details?"

"First of all, it wasn't a slight. Colonel Hogan sent my brother back to EIGHTEEN SEVENTY-EIGHT! Excuse me for having a little mental breakdown. Yes, I did resort to a unique form of torture. Well, I actually used a song from the Broadway musical Wicked. I sang, rather loudly, and with the aid of my cell phone, a rather stunning rendition of the song What Is This Feeling? Several others, myself included, found it to be quite humorous."

Agent Stone raised an eyebrow again. He apparently did not share my sense of humor. He looked at his watch, and at his notes, surprised. He reached over, and turned off the tape-recorder. "Well, we've apparently reached half-way point earlier than I predicted. Can I still interest you in your seriously over caffeinated drink?"

I stood up, grinning in relief. "Thank you!" I walked over to the interview room door, and waited for him. "You realize that I don't have any money on me?"

"That's what a budget is for. Come on, I can get some decent coffee here." He opened the door, and followed me out, doing a not so subtle check around the perimeter.

"I don't think anyone is going to try and kidnap me on federal property, which also happens to be swarming with federal agents," I said, attempting to lighten the mood. I failed miserably.

"Miss, you are still a minor under law, and I was assigned to protect you. I take my job very seriously." He obviously meant it.

"There is no leaving you people behind is there? I want some decent coffee." I trudged down the hallway, before remembering something. "Agent Stone, I forgot my backpack!" He looked exasperated, but we ended up going back to get my backpack.

The backpack was something I had cooked up a few hours after I had gotten home. I had appropriated my big brother's old camping backpack, and outfitted it for surviving time travel, accidental or otherwise.

I was going to do my best to make sure that it was never the former. EVER.

The contents were, in no order of importance: A cell phone and charger cord, in case I just jumped continents. A jumbo-sized box of granola bars, in case I got hungry. I also had four bottles of distilled water, a Kodak camera with three extra rolls of film, a sleeping bag, and thirty-five dollars, US currency. That was just the first part, but the list was really long, suffice it to say that I was prepared for jumping continents, time, or completely breaching the laws of the space/time continuum.

I was never going to be caught unprepared again. Not if I could help it.

"Let's go get coffee."

I agreed wholeheartedly, and soon we were in a wonderful little coffee shop right around the corner from the building. "May I ask you a question, IronAmerica?" Agent Stone asked suddenly.

"Sure."

"Why do you carry the camping pack around? It's been awhile since you got home. Surely your counselor that the government is paying for has helped you get over any residual effects of your ordeal?"

"Counselor my foot. That crazy lady is not helping any, believe me." I took a deep drought from my coffee, before licking the foam off my lips. I looked at the cup, a sad smile on my face. "You know, this is probably one of the things that I missed the most. Right up there with long hot showers and real technology."

"I know the feeling."

I looked at Agent Stone, and choked on my coffee. "You are joking, right?" I laughed, before something hit me. "Oh my god. I sound like a QI'yaH Mary-Sue!"

Agent Stone's eyes widened at my use of Klingon. "Good lord, child! Where did you learn that?"

The word that I had used to describe myself and my current Mary-Sue like qualities was also one of the strongest curses a Klingonite-or a Klingon-could use. Apparently, it is so strong that it defies translation, and thus something that you do not use in polite society as a general rule.

"KLD, why?"

"I'm just… astounded that you know a curse that potent." He took a sip of his coffee, and had apparently decided that our conversation was over.

* * *

Half an hour later, we were back in the interview room, ready for round two. Relationships. How fun. Had they nothing better to do? And I had already covered this earlier.

"Would you please describe, for the record, the nature of you relationship with Sergeant Andrew Carter?"

I frowned, wondering myself exactly what my relationship had been. Maybe I was just a paranoid self-centered teenage demon girl, too wrapped up in her own little world to notice anything going on around me. Well, that was if you believed everything that Colonel Hogan said.

"Well, we were sorta friends. I mean, not extremely close, but we were okay with each other. I somehow managed to not offend him seriously, and he was still on speaking terms with me when we finally got the okay to go home." I smiled, remembering the face of one of the only people I had managed to stay on civil speaking terms with.

"Please clarify for the record."

"We were casual friends, who were on civil terms with each other. We managed to part with no wish to kill each other," I said, keeping a straight face. If Stone could do the stone wall impersonation, than so could I.

"Thank you. Please state, clearly, for the record, the nature of your relationship with Corporal Louis LeBeau."

Ah. LeBeau. My favorite Frenchman.

"Well, I didn't really get to know him that well. He could make a mean cup of coffee, though. We didn't really have speaking terms to start with, but we never actively tried to antagonize each other. Intentionally, at any rate. He was pretty cool and just kind of… there."

Agent Stone nodded, writing another note down. "What was the nature of your relationship with Corporal Erik James?"

"Corporal James? Oh, he was actually the head of my little fleet of bodyguards. He was okay, I guess. And surprisingly easy going. He had a wife and a kid waiting for him when he got home. I looked him up when I got back." I smiled, and frowned, remembering what I had found. "He never got back. Corporal James was a good friend, and someone I would trust my life with."

"Oh. What was the nature of your relationship with Sergeant James Kinchloe?"

"Kinch and I got along fine. I made a few blunders, and everyone seemed to think that I commiserated with him about his status in the forties. I didn't, you know." Oh lord was I sounding self-pitying. "I count the fact that he didn't want to kill me by the end a good solid relationship."

Agent Stone's watch beeped, startling me. He stood up, and turned off the tape recorder. "That's all the time we have today to debrief you. If you will proceed to the entrance, some agents will be waiting to escort you to your lodgings. It's been a pleasure, Miss IronAmerica." Agent Stone picked up his jacket, and followed me out of the interview room.

* * *

I find this hard to believe, but right now, I would really rather be in Stalag 13. The room is nice, I have unlimited TV access, a computer (which is being monitored by an agent), and room service. I am absolutely bored.

I think back to my last few moments in Stalag 13, smiling.

My flashback…

"So. You're finally leaving." Colonel Hogan is standing at the window in his quarters in Barracks 2, arms crossed. "Good. If you ever come back to this time, which I doubt, I sincerely hope that we never come in contact with each other again…"

"No love lost, hey Colonel?" I said, grinning at him. He turns around, and looks at me. All good feelings from earlier are apparently gone. Sigh.

"There wasn't any to begin with," he says, completely deadpan. I hold up my hand, face as guileless as I can make it.

"How about a truce? If I ever come back, which I won't, I'll do my best to be a good girl, and you can… be you." I smile at him, hand still out. He nods, and takes my hand.

On an impulse, I grab him into a hug, feeling him go stiff. I pull back, and see the stunned expression on his face. "That was an apology, Colonel Hogan. You'll never believe this, and neither will I, but I'm actually going to miss you. You take care of yourself, you hear me?"

He laughed at me, a rich hearty sound. Its then my turn to be stunned. I have never heard him laugh, and I never thought that I could get him to laugh. This was a Kodak moment, and I couldn't record it! I let it rest, enjoying myself.

"I will, believe me. Oh, and if you ever show your face around here again," he draws his finger across his throat. "You'll never see the light of day again."

"How positively cheerful, Colonel." I smile, and step back, saluting. "I never intend to return if I can help it sir. I hate it here. It's so… boring." I grin again, and say "I've got to go say goodbye to Peter. But, I'll see ya 'round."

I swear I hear him mutter, "Not if I can help it," as I close the door behind me.

"Hey, Peter!" I wave, grabbing his attention. I've mastered my fear of the tunnels so that I can say goodbye to him, and gone down.

"Oh. It's you," he looks mildly disappointed for some reason. "Well, you're off then, I suppose?" He looks mildly hopeful, as if it's too good to be true.

"Yup. I'm gone. But there was something I needed to take care of first." I step up to him, and grab his shirt, pulling him into a kiss. He struggles briefly, but finally leans into the kiss.

He finally breaks the kiss when someone starts whistling. I turn around, glaring daggers at the person who interrupted. It's Corporal James, and he's smiling broadly. Lousy little…

"Corporal, you have about three seconds," I said, leaning my head on Peter's shoulder. I would be leaving soon, and I wanted to make the best of my last few minutes with him. Corporal James was interfering with my plan.

"Right. Umm. Here goes. Good luck in the twenty-third century, or wherever you actually are from. Oh, and never come here again. My nerves can't handle it." He held out his hand, a small smile on his face.

"I'm 21C, but thanks. And I don't intend to be stopping by this way ever again. Your nerves will be fine. Ciao, Corporal James." I gave him a mock salute, and kissed Peter on the cheek. "I'll miss you, Corporal Peter Newkirk."

"Goodbye. " He stepped back, holding me at arms length. "You know, you were a holy terror. I'll miss you." I hugged him, and stepped back, wiping my eyes. It wouldn't do to have a breakdown here.

"I'll miss you too." Here is my mental breakdown for the day, or so it would seem.

He smiled, and motioned back the way I had come. "You better get going. You don't want to miss your ride home now, do you?"

I shook my head, and walked away, Corporal James following.

I shot up from my position on the hotel bed, face wet. I had fallen asleep, and I had been crying. Was there no end to what I was always going to genuinely miss about being stuck in my version of hell?

"This is touching" someone said, from the direction of my window.

"Huh?"

"This. Your rather touching display of why exactly I consider your species so inferior."

I looked around, and then at the TV. I laughed, and lay back down. It was just another episode of Star Trek running. Q was there, and I had thought that someone had gotten into my room. I was being such a moron, and deluding myself.

"So, how would you actually like to travel again?"

That was definitely not my imagination. I grabbed my pack, intent on getting my pocketknife. I didn't have a chance, and a bright white light surrounded me.

I took one look around my new surroundings, and swore. "Oh shit…"

I will be continuing this particular adventure sometime later this month, in one of the Trek fandoms. Until then, ta!


	71. Epilogue, Linda

**Epilogue - Linda**

I'd always wondered if there was a soft side to Colonel Hogan. Despite all the mess we'd gotten him, and his men, and his operation into, when he gave me that slightly wistful look, and then hugged me, I knew I'd seen it.

No, he was never going to be a heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy. And no, he wasn't going to back down, not for anyone, not even a dame from the future (cue Jessica!). But somewhere inside him, Colonel Hogan appreciated being... well... just accepted for who he was. Not being expected to be Superman, and not being questioned for every decision he made. We just talked. Sometimes, when we weren't running around trying to get away from the Gestapo or zipping up and down the ladders to the tunnels or trying to rescue one or another of us, we just _were_. Nope, not in a girlfriend-boyfriend kind of way, more like in a friend-friend kind of way. And it was during those quiet times that I really appreciated the heavy responsibility, and the deep conviction, that this flyer-turned-spy had within him.

Now, sitting in my living room, not having been remotely missed by anyone, as I returned to the exact moment I'd left (but a lot more tired, let me tell you!!), I'm watching _Hogan's Heroes_ on DVD, and I'm watching Bob Crane a lot more closely. I've pretty much seen everything I could ever hope to see in these, I had thought, with the work on the biography meaning that I have studied every little nuance. _So I thought._ Now, I watch Bob even a bit _more_ closely. Did _my_ Colonel Hogan rub his face with his thumb like that? Did _my_ Colonel Hogan's voice go up like that when he got excited? Did _my_ Colonel Hogan really move so fast all the time?

Bob Crane does it so well that I wish I knew if he'd had the chance to talk to the real Colonel Hogan when he did the series, to learn from him. I wish Bob was alive, for so many reasons, but at the moment, so I could tell him how good a job he did portraying such a complex man. And from now on, when I see "Colonel Hogan" plotting on television, I'll nod a bit more appreciatively at Bob... and then mentally tip my hat to the man whose plotting helped us all get home.


	72. Epilogue, Tuttle

**Epilogue - Tuttle**

I don't think people quite believe me when I tell them I'm a jerk. I think they think I'm joking. But it's true. Still don't believe me? Don't worry, you will when I admit that the watching the heroes go up the ladder to meet their doom was probably the best thing that happened to me on the whole trip.

There's nothing like a crises to knock someone out of a funk of self-pity and guilt and spring them into action! And that's just what I did. Hexiva and I followed Jake's lead and soon Hogan and his men were safe and sound and all of us time-travelling Hogan Heroes fan girls were together again! Nothing could make me happier.

Of course, hearing about Jessica's kiss with Klink didn't hurt my spirits either.

This is probably an odd thing for a time-traveller to say, but I learned there really was no use dwelling on the past. Some things just happen and you can't change them- you just have to deal with them.

As we were all celebrating our Sue-ccess, I heard Colonel Hogan tell his men that they would have to lay low for a while- no more sabotage until everything had blown over. It occurred to me in that moment that, whether I was there or not, bridges and trains and factories were still going to get blown up. Perhaps that train had been scheduled for destruction long before any of us had even thought about heading to the National Archives.

It didn't make the guilt go away. But now, instead of being a millstone around my neck, it was more like a brick in my backpack. It would take a while, but I was pretty sure that once I was back home, eventually it would become a pebble in my shoe- something that would only bother me when I thought about it.

Speaking of home.

Biendenbender and Hochstetter were our not-so-willing time device test subjects. They weren't gone long before one of Hogan's men came up to us with some papers that had simply appeared in the barracks. Hogan showed us one of the pictures. It showed Hochstetter and Biedenbender together in Washington- 2008. But that wasn't the only thing in the picture. Beside them was someone who looked awfully familiar. It only took me a second to remember and when I did, I grinned.

I was so right!

"That's my CIA man!" I exclaimed. Without further explanation, I touched the time device.

"I knew it!" I said, even before I was sure of where I was. "You're with the CIA!"

Turned out, I was in the same place I had left- the National Archives. Leaning up against a shelf, a mug of coffee in his hand, was my CIA man.

Now, I won't bore you with our reunion. Needless to say, I was rather smug about being right. And also curious as to what he had been doing in Peru all those months ago. I highly doubted a CIA agent would go to a foreign country for two months just to volunteer with orphans. He didn't tell me, of course, which I thought was a shame. After all we had been through together- Incan ruins, Spanish lessons, riots… chocolate cake.

Well, anyway, no such luck. And no luck finding out what happened to our heroes, either. Dang.

Eventually, the rest of the gang joined me in the future- erm, present. We were all gathered together for a lengthy debriefing. It was only then that we learned what had happened to everyone while we were there. For instance, before debriefing, I had no idea that Cat and Niente had stayed with Mavis in London. Or that Sarah Forsyth- my Sarah Forsyth!- had been the cause of some of their problems. Figured.

"What about you Chalilli? Did you do anything the others don't know about?" Jeff, my CIA man, asked, using the name given to me by my orphans. I'm still not sure what 'Chalilli' means. I was assured it didn't mean anything, really, it was just a silly name someone would give a clown. Still not sure though. I mean, me? A clown? Where would they get an idea like that?!

"For instance, where were you while we were on our date? We were worried sick about you!"

Oh right. I had forgotten to tell Jessica and Linda about my little outing with Carter. Well, maybe I could keep them in the dark indefinitely. I'd rather be thought of as a clown than a murderer, after all.

"Would you believe that I pulled an IronAmerica on Carter?"

"No canoes in Germany."

Again with the canoes! Newkirk had a big mouth. Which probably meant Carter did as well.

"Would you believe I went all secret agent and blew up a bridge?"

"Yeah right," IronAmerica said, sounding a touch indignant that her name as a verb meant 'to jump a canon character and kiss the crap out of them'.

I let out a sigh and shrugged. "It's a very sad tale when no one will believe anything you say."

Jeff rolled his eyes, losing a bit of his good humor. "Listen, be serious for once, wouldya? We've gotta know everything y'all did in the past. We need to know if you're responsible for these changes."

"Changes?" another time traveller asked, perking up. "What changes?"

"Don't worry, there aren't too many."

"But there have been changes," I pressed.

"Well, for instance, all records on that Major Hochstetter's trial after the war disappeared." Well, that wasn't surprising. After all, we had brought him here before he could be tried in the past. "This one's kinda puzzling though. We've got two separate records on this train that was supposed to be blown up. First one says the mission failed. Second one says the mission was a success."

"And has that changed anything dramatically?"

"Did for a whole city in France. The soldiers on that train had orders to burn the city down and execute the civilians on suspicion of being a major hub for underground activities."

"And we somehow stopped that?" someone asked in amazement.

"Either you guys or we've gotta track down more time travellers!"

I sat in silence while the others discussed what might have caused the change. A whirlwind of emotions spun around in my chest. Finally, an overwhelming sense of relief washed out all the others. And, a lot sooner than I had thought, that brick became a sprinkling of sand in my shoe. I could live with that.

While the others talked, I caught Jessica watching me. I think she knew. It would, after all, have explained why I was so irrational during that last part of the trip. Well, I'd leave her to wonder. I would tell Jeff later what Carter and I had done.

After all, I wasn't a hero.

I was just a clown.


	73. Epilogue, Cat

**Epilogue - Cat**

_So when I arrived, I was met by Tuttle's CIA man. However, it seemed as though I had only just left D.C. for maybe a few hours. Great, I'm about 7 pounds thinner and have a huge black eye. No way am I explaining that to co-workers. He wanted me to go to CIA first, but I had already gotten my cell in my hand to call work and tell them I had become ill and probably wouldn't be in the next day._

_Next, I called my sister and told her I would be coming down to visit her in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley. I felt it would do me good to get away from the city for a while. Finally, I agreed to go and get debriefed. (My mother always said debriefing was the silliest thing. You tell everything you know, and then they say forget everything. You say okay and everyone acts as if you did, when you know you didn't.) So that's how I ended up here._

_Okay, you asked me to fill in the gaps from when Hogan showed my driver's license to Biedenbender and Hochstetter to now._

Well, my first thought was: he's turning me in, and then I realized that it didn't make sense. Especially the way he met my eyes, no look of love, but understanding. He was telling me, he knew I wasn't with Biedenbender. I could have kissed him right there! Luckily, I hadn't been that dumbfounded with lack of sleep, I just disengaged myself from the General and moved away to show I understood. Now was my chance to see the real Hogan at work.

Trouble was, Klink kept trying to get me to the kitchen. He also had a funny look on his face and I wasn't going near him. (Little did I know about his little incident in the kitchen with Jessica!)

Hogan was doing his bit to confuse the general and Hochstetter. It was something else seeing Hogan and Biedenbender doing their little fencing. Biedenbender, pressing on, probing; Hogan deftly avoiding the trap and then advancing on his own. It was great until Hochstetter, in his usual bull in the china shop way barged in. Biedenbender was getting upset trying to steer the interrogation back, when Hochstetter opened a Pandora's box and everything for me broke lose. There was that awful Mary Sue song and it sounded like Schultz singing; simultaneously causing the real Schultz to come through the door, with IronAmerica shouting something incomprehensible. A smoke bomb was tossed in the room and someone shouted in German don't touch it. Klink pushed me towards the kitchen and someone grabbed the collar of my coat and pulled me all the way in.

JESSICA! No time for greetings, she shoved me down the tunnel under the stove; I'm almost stepping on Linda, while she almost kicked me in the face. It wasn't until we were safely under where I hugged them all. But, then we began running toward the tunnel under the dog house, passing the radio room where Jake, Tuttle and Hexiva were assembling something. Climbing up under the doghouse we saw Hochstetter and Biedenbender taking Hogan and IronAmerica (still shouting something in some language I didn't have a clue. _Klingon? Okay if you say so._) away. Biedenbender also picked out Hogan's men from the lineup. So it was back down in the tunnels towards Jake and her crew.

Jake had decided I wasn't in any shape to go with them as I was already overstressed and over tired. I _really_ wouldn't be in any shape to help. What could I do but agree with her? I didn't have my glasses and couldn't see anything proper in the distance. I have never handled a gun. I couldn't jeopardize any rescue mission by insisting on going; she was right I would be more of a hindrance than anything. No false pride here. Something this important, I go with the pros.

So I stayed behind, agonizing every minute they were gone. I kept sneaking up in the doghouse to see if I could find out anything. What I hadn't expected was Klink marching out into the compound and yelling at the Gestapo guards Hochstetter left in camp. I couldn't hear much, but did hear the words General Burkhalter and Himmler. Finally, Klink's guards were well, guarding the Gestapo! Holy Cow! This wasn't our Klink at all! Finally, Klink and some of his guards had left the camp, after Hogan, I guess. He wasn't going to have his prisoners in the hands of the Gestapo! Go Klink! (Never thought I would ever say that!)

After Klink, left, I then went into the tunnels waiting for someone to return. While aimlessly wandering in one of the tunnels, I did find out that someone had found my purse. I checked to make sure I still had everything, like my cellphone, wallet, Ipaq, and mp3 player. By that time, the rest of the men in the compound had been released. Baker and some of the men from Barracks 2 were coming down into the tunnels to gather up whatever papers, etc. in case they had to move out. In that flurry of agitation, I kept out of their way. Baker was trying to contact London to let them know what was happening. It was about the time when Baker finally had gotten in contact with London when the first of our little time-traveling tribe came in through the back entrance with Hochstetter and Biedenbender. I stayed back, deep in the tunnels. I wasn't ready to face them; yet. Everything was still too confused for me.

Our team said everything went well, and we waited for Hogan and his men to come back in the more conventional way. Finally they came down.

"Colonel, I need to speak to you," I said as I caught Hogan's arm.

"Can it wait? We're kind of busy right now."

"NO! This is important. I have to tell you now!"

Hogan crossed his arms and leaned against the tunnel wall giving me a look as if; okay, now she's going to complain…

"They're in a Gasthaus, mit Bloomen und Baumen und… Oh Blast, Cat speak English. I mean, they're, I mean Olsen and Niente, are in a Gasthaus, about 30-45 minutes from here, with trees and flowers in window boxes…"

I think he was relieved at least I wasn't crying, or complaining, but he did sit me down and tried to get me to calm down. Newkirk again came up with a mug of tea for me. "Here, darlin' just tell us where they are."

"It's a small Gasthaus, just inside the city. It's white, I didn't have my glasses so I couldn't read the name… but they're there with Gestapo. Gestapo is crawling around the place."

"Sounds like Bachmeier's. We'll have the underground take care of it." Hogan then turned to Kinch to notify the underground and let them know where our "lost lambs" were. "Thanks, Cat. Hey, you look dead on your feet. Why don't you get some sleep? We'll let you know when they arrive."

"I can't, there's more."

"More?" His eyebrows rose.

"There's going to be an agent going or is there now, at Westminster Abbey looking for the Greenman. He or she thinks the message from Eloi will be there."

Even after Newkirk explained about the Greenman, Hogan looked confused, "Why would a message from a time traveler be in Westminster Abbey?"

I had to tell him about the whole confusion about Eloi and St. Eloi. I just figured why I never did get along with Hogan during this time. We were definitely operating on different wavelengths. I mean, we both spoke the same language, but boy, did we misunderstand each other at every turn.

I continued, "Biedenbender was never debriefed when he arrived. He just arrived, talked to his land crew and well, he didn't arrive in my room until later, but it couldn't have been more than half an hour. Disgraced generals arriving unannounced should take longer. Wouldn't they?"

Judging from the looks being passed between Newkirk, Kinchloe and Hogan, the answer was yes.

"And…" Oh boy, this one was harder. I had just realized that I would have to explain the reason I thought Biedenbender's helper in London was female or at least the person who helped in his escape. In the tunnels, thinking it over, I realized it may have just been my ego which made me think he was seducing me instead of anything Biedenbender was doing. But, no, he did kiss me and suggested he would be more than friendly… Nope my gut feeling was right. So I told Hogan exactly what happened in the car and stumbled over what happened the night before. Thank God he believed me at first telling with minimal amount of questions asked.

(_Affair? What do you mean you were under the impression that the general and I had an affair? Nothing happened that night, besides one night would hardly qualify as an affair. _

_Yes, I would say that there was definitely a 'variance' between what you read in the historical reports and my telling. IF there were rumors between him and someone named Kraus, it wasn't me._)

I guess he called London and told them what happened because after that, I found a comfortable spot in the tunnels away from everyone and fell asleep until Niente and Olsen returned. Another group hug, although I think it brought out the first genuine laugh I had since I got here when Olsen told Hogan that "Biedenbender was slaking greenmen at Winchester Cathedral!" Again, thank God I got there first.

After that, everything was sort of a dénouement. We were fiddling with the gold thingy and with the note that Byakugan left us which Niente had managed to keep, we were able to set the thing to what we hoped was the correct settings. Biedenbender and Hochstetter were the guinea pigs… Then came Tuttle. Well, after her CIA man sent her a picture back… and so on. We all said good byes and then came back.

(_Okay, so it was a little more. Hogan did apologize to me. "I remember you said I could thank you personally, Cat, when you came back."_

_I was a little surprised until I saw his hand out… Yeah, we shook hands, of course I was so glad he didn't take me at my word from what I said over the radio, and he apologized, I hugged him. Oh yes, there was a lot of hugging, because I think I was so glad to go home I hugged everyone in that tunnel. Kinch was rather uncomfortable, but I told him, "thanks to you, and men like you, I can do this to my friends and co-workers out in the open and no one thinks anything of it. Thanks from all of us." He still looked a little uncomfortable._

_And then making sure I had my purse, I touched the gold thingy._)

Next thing I know, I'm having pizza and soda in your conference room.

(_Why did I give Biedenbender the coffee? Oh, for pity's sake. Have you ever seen a lion in the zoo? I mean in a cage? You just feel sorry for it. I guess I remembered how I felt when I first was dropped into 1943. Yeah, I did ask for someone to look up Biedenbender's family, but that was only for my curiosity. No, feelings whatsoever. Why not the same courtesy to Hochstetter? You don't try and tame a rabid dog. Nope there are no feelings other than pity for Biedenbender…_)

Interviewer's Notes:

In spite of denial for any feelings for Biedenbender, we found "Ms. Ballou" very interested in what would become of the general. In the opinion of this interviewer, I feel that she can be very helpful in our interrogation and final reintroduction of the general into the 21st century. I further recommend that we allow any interaction between the two to help in the interrogation and final reintroduction of the general to the 21st century.


	74. Epilogue, Jake

**Epilogue - Jake (and Jordre)**

Things kind of..._flickered..._and suddenly I was outdoors in summer daylight, in a city--a modern city. Just as I realized I was back in DC, my overworked legs threw in the towel, and I collapsed with a grimace. Here it came; now the crowd would gather and some well-meaning soul would call an ambulance whether I wanted one or not. The last thing I needed right now was some big-city sawbones discovering I had a gunshot wound and calling the cops.

But before they could even start to gather, a Man in Black, sunglasses and all, helped me to my feet. "You must be Ms Duncan," he said.

_"Miss,"_ I corrected him emphatically. "M-i-s-s, the title for a single woman. I am _not_ 'Ms.'" I sneered the...sound; it certainly isn't a proper word.

He blinked, then, still supporting me with one arm, he reached into his pocket and showed me a CIA ID. "Come with me, please."

I'd been expecting the spook squad to be waiting for us since the beginning of this little caper, so I went without hesitation. The first stop was a doctor, who must have been one of theirs, because he didn't try to call the cops or ask any questions. He declared the wound clean, then carefully applied antiseptic to the new scab and re-bandaged it. With the usual instructions to keep it clean and dry, and an additional caution to avoid excessive strain for a couple of weeks, I was sent on my way. With the flannel shirt folded over my belt, I rejoined the agent in the waiting room, and I was taken to Langley.

In this great lobby, I was checked for weapons and asked to leave my pocketknife at the front desk before I was issued a visitor's pass and taken to an office, where another agent proceeded to debrief me, and he didn't have anything like Col. Hogan's finesse, making it sound more like an adversarial procedure than a debriefing.

I have the stereotypical redhead's temper, but circumstances at home forced me to learn to control it at a very early age. As a result, it takes a heck of a lot to make me truly lose my temper. The others saw me get snarky when I mistakenly believed Hexiva had sold us out, and they saw me get more than a little testy when I was injured; if they'd ever seen me in a full-blown rage, I think even the Krauts would've been diving for cover.

Well, I was exhausted and short-tempered to start with, and I had only a single thread of control left; when my private interrogator leaned into my face and accused me of acting without regard to consequences to the future, that thread snapped. I shot to my feet and jabbed a pointing finger into his face--actually, ended up jabbing his nose, he was so close. "Hold it right there, Mac," I snarled, my old Brooklyn accent coming up from the depths of my past. "First of all, I ain't the enemy here, so you can just quit treatin' me like one. Second, none of us could've done a darn thing back there that hadn't already been part of recorded history."

"Sheer conjecture."

"Proven fact," I shot back. "Proven by two events in my life," which I then proceeded to describe. "Also proven by the fact that you and the other 'Company' men were waiting for us when we came back. _You already had the reports in that box."_

He actually backpedalled a couple of steps as I advanced on him, my finger still under his nose, then gave a start and tried to regain control, but I wasn't having any. "You've already asked me the same questions half a dozen different ways; if I haven't told you anything new, then you've got all there is. Now I've got a roommate who's been trying to take care of 30 head of sheep all alone while holding down a full-time job, and she's got to be worried sick about me by now, so, if you'll kindly escort me out of this rabbit-warren, I'd like to grab the first train home."

He escorted me, not to the Amtrak station, but to a meeting room where some of the others were gathered, along with Biedenbender and Hochstetter. Biedenbender was pretty much at liberty, presumably having given his parole, but Hochstetter was shrieking imprecations, practically foaming at the mouth. He was getting increasingly frustrated as his threats failed to impress any of us; when one gentleman of color, his own self-control shattered by a particularly nasty racial slur, tore the swastika armband from the short man's sleeve and threatened to gag him with it, I thought the Nazi was going to burst a blood vessel.

Shortly afterward, the two German's were removed, and, while I can't presume to speak definitively for the others, I seriously doubt that any of us could care a rat's you-know-what about their fates. I know I was suddenly too interested in filling my gut with the best pizza I'd put in my mouth since leaving New York 20 years ago in my time...I shook my head as if to clear it. _You don't have to deal with time displacement anymore, _I told myself and wondered if Voyagers (1) had to put up with this kind of disorientation. Speaking of Voyagers, that gizmo had had a startling resemblance to an Omni (2). I shook those thoughts away and asked if anyone could possibly find me a root beer in this place. Coffee and I have never gotten along very well, and, after a month of practically living on the stuff, the smell alone was enough to turn my stomach.

They were pretty free about information, about the great cover-up of Stalag 13 and so on, and told us that we could tell anyone we liked about our adventure. I couldn't help thinking about the _Purloined Letter--_You know; the best place to hide something is in plain sight.

One thing they absolutely refused to tell us, however, was what had happened to the Heroes, except for the slightly familiar-looking man who surreptitiously tipped his badge so we could read it.

I wasn't a bit surprised to see the name.

* * *

When it was finally over, they offered me plane tickets to South Carolina, and I had the devil's own time getting it through their thick skulls that I _can't_ fly; there isn't a motion-sickness pill strong enough to make it comfortable, unless I take enough of it to knock me out. Finally, though, I managed to convince them that I really did want an Amtrak ticket, and they got me one.

The one drawback to living in the sticks is that you can't call a cab in the middle of the night, and there's no public transportation. It was 1 a.m. when the train pulled into the station, actually on time for once. The station-house wasn't even open, and there's no longer any such thing as a pay phone, a major inconvenience for someone like me who refuses to own an electronic leash. I shrugged and started walking. I was looking at a 17-mile hike; it'd probably be daylight before I made it home.

I reckoned without some of our friends getting home late from a livestock auction. I'd been walking about an hour when the couple picked me up and gladly brought me home; I had them drop me at the foot of the drive, since there was nowhere in the yard for them to turn that monster of a trailer they were pulling.

The house was dark--my roommate Jordre works nights and wouldn't be home until 7:30 or 8. I talked to the dog a second before I actually opened the door; once I was inside, nothing would do but that I sit down and let this 50-pound AmStaff welcome me home.

When she finally let me up, I headed straight for the phone.

"LaboratoryElfspeaking; howmayIhelpyou?" this flat voice answered the phone. (How she got _that_ nickname is a whole story in itself.)

"Hi; it's me."

Silence, then, "Omigod. _Where are you??"_

"Home. I just got in."

"Where've you been? _Are you okay?"_

"You are not going to believe this."

"Try me--no; I don't have time. Somebody'll be in at five; I'll come home then."

I grinned as we rang off. She was either _so_ not going to believe this, or she was going to be mad as hornets, with the latter being much more likely; GSWs (3) are hard to fake.

* * *

(1) _Voyagers!_ was a kids' sci-fi show in the early 1980s.

(2) The Omni was a Voyager's time-travel device.

(3) GSW is hospital parlance for gunshot wound.


	75. Epilogue, Hexiva

**Epilogue - Hexiva**

After a very strange second that I don't think they've invented the adjective for yet, I found myself standing in the National Archives. For a moment, I considered turning around and walking out as if nothing had happened beyond a slight headache. Then two facts that rendered this unlikely occurred to me.

First, there was a man standing looking at me as if he'd been waiting for me to appear. I suspect he'd have stopped me if I tried to leave.

Second, and more importantly, _I had lost my book!_ I had lost the new Warriors book that I'd been waiting for for _months, _and how was I to convince my parents to get me a new one? And how was I to make it through the trip back home without a _book?_

"Is time travel disorienting?" the government official-- for that was what I supposed him to be-- asked curiously.

"Yes, but I've lost my book," I said dully. "My new copy of _Outcast."_

"Oh," he said, clearly having no interest in my plight. _Hmmf. _Probably doesn't read sci-fi/fantasy.

"Ugh, at least it wasn't a library book . . . Can they fine you for returning a book sixty-five years before you check it out? I don't think they had that in mind when they wrote the rules . . ."

"Would you come with me, miss?" he asked. "There seems to be some question about what, exactly, you did in 1943."

I froze. Oh, _no. _It hadn't occurred to me that there might be repercussions in the present for my, uh, discussions with Hochstetter. "It was all lies!" I blurted. "I was just trying not to be killed! I didn't tell them anything useful!"

"I'm certain you didn't. But we need to get your report." He held up a tape recorder. I looked at it, wondering how long he'd been waiting for me to appear here. Having a tape recorder handy seems awfully well prepared.

"How long have I been gone?" I asked.

"Not . . . _too _long. You were the last to leave the present."

"Too long? What's that supposed to mean?" I'd thrown caution and manners to the winds hours ago. "Am I going to have to explain this to my parents? They won't _believe _me."

"You're a few hours late. I should hurry with the report if I were you."

And that was that. I got a lecture on paying attention and not drifting off into my imagination and my books from Mom, but that's nothing new. I told her I had gotten lost; the same for my book.

And when I got home, I stuffed my copy of _Fatherland, _by Robert Harris,in the closet. I didn't want to think about alternate history anymore.


	76. Epilogue, Hogan

**Epilogue – Hogan  
_The Final Installment_**

…an odd moment of disorientation in strange place/time…

A bang echoed off the stone buildings. Colonel Hogan ducked back into the shadows, his white trench coat blending him into the wall of the building. He waited, listening, but the sound of his arrival seemed to have passed unnoticed in the empty night.

Cautiously, he moved forward. Huh. It was D. C. all right. He knew exactly where he was—about half a block from the Archives. He glanced across the street to the building. At least that part of the story about the golden device was true. But nothing in what he saw told him he was in any time but his own.

Putting on his casual, 'of course I belong here' demeanor that got him through countless Nazi installations unchallenged, Hogan strode confidently down the deserted sidewalk. The relaxed attitude covered his intense scrutiny of everything and anything different about this city. This city and this_ time?_ He glanced upwards a once or twice, scanning the bit of sky he could see through the buildings. True, GSJessica had told him there were no flying cars in the future, but he could hope, couldn't he?

At the end of the block he paused in front of a row of newspaper vending machines. "Guess I'm not in Kansas anymore," Hogan murmured to himself as the never-quite-believed notion of time travel became more real. The Washington Post he knew. USA Today, however? And 'today' was…? Hogan leaned down, peering at the date, then straightened, looking up and around him again, more unsettled than he'd expected to be. Imagine how those time traveling women had felt. They hadn't known what was happening, or when and where they'd gone; hadn't had this quiet moment to let the reality settle in. Suddenly screaming and running, or bursting into tears, didn't seem like a disproportionate reaction at all.

'Today' was the early morning hours of a Sunday in the summer of 2008.

Hogan stepped to the end of the block. To the left, the Capitol. To the right, down the National Mall, the unmistakable sight of the Washington Monument. No Nazi scheme could fake all of this, including the low, sleek police car that cruised by him. It slowed, but didn't stop. Hogan did see the officer inside give him a long look on his way past. Hogan gave the police officer a cool nod, then turned, striding confidently down the street the same direction as the police car—this is, _away_ from the Capitol.

Lighting a cigarette—not because he wanted one, Hogan rarely smoked—to appear casual and in-place, Hogan took stock as he strode down Pennsylvania Avenue. He needed transportation. Preferably red. A convertible would be nice, like _that_ one. Mustang. Good name. Hmm… named for the P-51? Well, he reconsidered with a sense of dutiful resignation, perhaps something a little less noticeable. He was here on a mission, after all.

Hotel first. He needed a base of operations. In his wallet he had nearly one hundred dollars of 'future' currency, taken from among those things left behind by the women. One hundred dollars should get him a long ways.

Hogan also had a cell phone, he wasn't sure whose it was. He needed to figure it out and see if it worked here-and-now. Though he knew it was a future telephone, in 1943 he'd only seen it take photographs. And Internet. He needed to find the Internet, whatever it was, so it could lead him to some of the women, Linda preferably, maybe Cat or Jessica. Niente… He'd need to put together a team to help him, at least to consult on the here and now…

Ah, here he was. Hogan stopped, looking at the reassuringly familiar exterior of the Hotel Harrington. He'd stayed here before, back in '39. Perfect. Now to check in and get started on his mission in earnest.

Glancing again up and down the street, Hogan whispered, "All right, where are you?"

**The End**

* * *

This is the concluding section of the "Mary Sue Experiments." Thanks for reading, and reviewing. Anyone—previous contributors or readers—is welcome to take this scenario and run with it. Take the story and situation any direction you wish. Go back in time yourself. Pick up the hanging elements in the present. Maybe Hogan finds _you_ on the Internet, or on the street. Anything.

Take the scenario to another fandom, even, and try the Mary Sue Experiment there. The basic plot is simple—you've accidentally end up in the supposedly fictional story and find it is real. Explore. See where the plot and adventure takes you and the other authors, as you find your way back home… or not. Try to resist the Mary Sue Effect as you write yourselves. Be _real_ humans, not super-humans. Please do post a message in the HH Forums if you do this in another fandom, so we can stop in and read!

No need to ask permission, just dive in and have some writing fun. One request, though—please don't use any of us who were in the story as contributors as characters without our consent. We are real people, after all.

Some hanging plot elements on this storyline:

--Who is the CIA man who shares a last name with one of the Heroes?

--What happens to Biedenbender? Or Hochstetter?

--The last thing any of the time travelers heard in 1943 was "Colonel! There's trouble. It's…" What was the trouble? How did it lead to Hogan coming to 2008?

--Klink is in 2008. How did he get there and what happens?

--What is Hogan's mission in 2008? Is he looking for Klink? Or something or someone else entirely? Does Hogan even know Klink is in 2008?

--In the context of this story scenario—that Hogan's Heroes and Stalag 13 were historically real--who created the Hogan's Heroes television show, and why? Which of the real Heroes gave the TV show all its information?


End file.
